IAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  E.  F.  Ducomraun 


HELEN 
OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 


BOOKS  BY 
HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT 

THAT  PRINTER  OF  UDELL'S 

THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

THE    CALLING    OF    DAN    MATTHEWS 

THE  WINNING  OF  BARBARA  WORTH 

THEIR  YESTERDAYS 
THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

WHEN  A  MAN'S  A  MAN 
THE   RE-CREATION    OF   BRIAN    KENT 

THE  UNCROWNED  KING 
HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

1-248 


HELEN 
OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

BY 

HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT 

AUTHOR   OF   "  THE   SHEPHERD   OF  ,  THE   HILLS," 
"  THE  WINNING  OF  BARBARA  WORTH,"  ETC. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK      ::      1921      ::      LONDON 


COPYRIGHT,   1921,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


PRINTED   IN   THE    UNITED   STATES    OF   AMERICA 


354-S 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  ONE 
THE  INTERPRETER 

CHAPTKB  PAOK 

I.  THE  HUT  ON  THE  CLIFF 3 

II.  LITTLE  MAGGIE'S  PRINCESS  LADY 29 

III.  THE  INTERPRETER 39 

IV.  PETER  MARTIN  AT  HOME 54 

V.  ADAM  WARD'S  ESTATE 59 

VI.  ON  THE  OLD  ROAD 70 

VII.  THE  HIDDEN  THING 81 

VIII.  WHILE  THE  PEOPLE  SLEEP 92 

IX.  THE  MILL 110 

X.  CONCERNING  THE  NEW  MANAGER 130 

XI.  COMRADES 141 

XII.  Two  SIDES  OF  A  QUESTION 163 

BOOK  TWO 
THE  TWO  HELENS 

XIII.  THE  AWAKENING 175 

XIV.  THE  WAY  BACK 185 

XV.  AT  THE  OLD  HOUSE 195 

XVI.  HER  OWN  PEOPLE 202 

XVII.  IN  THE  NIGHT 214 

1003949 


vi  CONTENTS 


BOOK  THREE 
THE   STRIKE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.  THE  GATHERING  STORM 223 

XIX.  ADAM  WARD'S  WORK 233 

XX.  THE  PEOPLE'S  AMERICA 247 

XXI.  PETER  MARTIN'S  PROBLEM 256 

XXII.  OLD  FRIENDS 266 

XXIII.  A  LAST  CHANCE 278 

XXIV.  THE  FLATS 289 

XXV.  MCIVER'S  OPPORTUNITY 306 

XXVI.  AT  THE  CALL  OP  THE  WHISTLE 325 

XXVII.  JAKE  VODELL'S  MISTAKE 331 

XXVIII.  THE  MOB  AND  THE  MILL 242 

XXIX.  CONTRACTS 355 

BOOK  FOUR 
THE  OLD  HOUSE 

XXX.  "JEST  LIKE  THE  INTERPRETER  SAID".  .             .  367 


BOOK  I 
THE  INTERPRETER 

"Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe: 
To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 
The  torch;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high. 
If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 
In  Flanders  fields." 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  HUT  ON  THE  CLIFF 

NO  well  informed  resident  of  Millsburgh,  when 
referring  to  the  principal  industry  of  his  little 
manufacturing  city,  ever  says  "the  mills" — 
it  is  always  "the  Mill." 

The  reason  for  this  common  habit  of  mind  is  that 
one  mill  so  overshadows  all  others,  and  so  dominates 
the  industrial  and  civic  life  of  this  community,  that 
in  the  people's  thought  it  stands  for  all. 

The  philosopher  who  keeps  the  cigar  stand  on  the 
corner  of  Congress  Street  and  Ward  Avenue 
explained  it  very  clearly  when  he  answered  an  inquir 
ing  stranger,  "You  just  can't  think  Millsburgh  with 
out  thinkin'  mills;  an'  you  can't  think  mills  without 
thinkin'  the  Mill." 

As  he  turned  from  the  cash  register  to  throw  his 
customer's  change  on  the  scratched  top  of  the  glass 
show  case,  the  philosopher  added  with  a  grin  that  was 
a  curious  blend  of  admiration,  contempt  and  envy, 
"An'  you  just  can't  think  the  Mill  without  thinkin' 
Adam  Ward." 

That  grin  was  another  distinguishing  mark  of  the 
well  informed  resident  of  Millsburgh.  Always,  in 
those  days,  when  the  citizens  mentioned  the  owner  of 

3 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

the  Mill,  their  faces  took  on  that  curious  half-laugh 
ing  expression  of  mingled  admiration,  contempt  and 
envy. 

But  it  has  come  to  pass  that  in  these  days  when  the 
people  speak  of  Adam  Ward  they  do  not  smile. 
When  they  speak  of  Adam  Ward's  daughter,  Helen, 
they  smile,  indeed,  but  with  quite  a  different  mean 
ing. 

The  history  of  Millsburgh  is  not  essentially  differ 
ent  from  that  of  a  thousand  other  cities  of  its  class. 

Born  of  the  natural  resources  of  the  hills  and  for 
ests,  the  first  rude  mill  was  located  on  that  wide 
sweeping  bend  of  the  river.  About  this  industrial 
beginning  a  settlement  gathered.  As  the  farm  lands 
of  the  valley  were  developed,  the  railroad  came, 
bringing  more  mills.  And  so  the  town  grew_up 
around  its  smoky  heart. 

It  was  hi  those  earlier  days  that  Adam  Ward, 
a  workman  then,  patented  and  introduced  the  new 
process.  It  was  the  new  process,  together  with 
its  owner's  native  genius  for  "getting  on,"  that,  in 
time,  made  Adam  the  owner  of  the  Mill.  And, 
finally,  it  was  this  combination  of  Adam  and  the  new 
process  that  gave  this  one  mill  dominion  over  all 
others. 

As  the  Mill  increased  in  size,  importance  and 
power,  and  the  town  grew  into  the  city,  Adam  Ward's 
material  possessions  were  multiplied  many  times. 

Then  came  the  year  of  this  story. 

It  was  midsummer.  The  green,  wooded  hills  that 
form  the  southern  boundary  of  the  valley  seemed  to 

4 


THE   HUT  ON   THE   CLIFF 


be  painted  on  shimmering  gauze.  The  grainfields 
on  the  lowlands  across  the  river  were  shining  gold. 
But  the  slate-colored  dust  from  the  unpaved  streets 
of  that  section  of  Millsburgh  known  locally  as  the 
"Flats"  covered  the  wretched  houses,  the  dilapidated 
fences,  the  hovels  and  shanties,  and  everything  ani 
mate  or  inanimate  with  a  thick  coating  of  dingy  gray 
powder.  Shut  in  as  it  is  between  a  long  curving  line 
of  cliffs  on  the  south  and  a  row  of  tall  buildings  on  the 
river  bank,  the  place  was  untouched  by  the  refresh 
ing  breeze  that  stirred  the  trees  on  the  hillside  above. 
The  hot,  dust-filled  atmosphere  was  vibrant  with  the 
dull,  droning  voice  of  the  Mill.  From  the  forest  of 
tall  stacks  the  smoke  went  up  in  slow,  twisting 
columns  to  stain  the  clean  blue  sky  with  a  heavy 
cloud  of  dirty  brown. 

The  deep-toned  whistle  of  the  Mill  had  barely 
called  the  workmen  from  their  dinner  pails  and 
baskets  when  two  children  came  along  the  road  that 
for  some  distance  follows  close  to  the  base  of  that 
high  wall  of  cliffs.  By  then*  ragged,  nondescript 
clothing  which,  to  say  the  least,  was  scant  enough  to 
afford  them  comfort  and  freedom  of  limb,  and  by 
the  dirt  that  covered  them  from  the  crowns  of  their 
bare,  unkempt  heads  to  the  bottoms  of  their  bare, 
unwashed  feet,  it  was  easy  to  identify  the  children 
as  belonging  to  that  untidy  community. 

One  was  a  sturdy  boy  of  eight  or  nine  neglected 
years.  On  his  rather  heavy,  freckled  face  and  in  his 
sharp  blue  eyes  there  was,  already,  a  look  of  hardness 
that  is  not  good  to  see  in  the  countenance  of  a  child. 
The  other,  his  sister,  was  two  years  younger — a 

5 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

thin  wisp  of  a  girl,  with  tiny  stooping  shoulders,  as 
though,  even  in  her  babyhood,  she  had  found  a 
burden  too  heavy.  With  her  tired  little  face  and 
grave,  questioning  eyes  she  looked  at  the  world  as 
if  she  were  wondering,  wistfully,  why  it  should 
bother  to  be  so  unkind  to  such  a  helpless  mite  of 
humanity. 

As  they  came  down  the  worn  road,  side  by  side, 
they  chose  with  experienced  care  those  wheel  ruts 
where  the  black  dust  lay  thickest  and,  in  solemn 
earnestness,  plowed  the  hot  tracks  with  their  bare 
feet,  as  if  their  one  mission  in  life  were  to  add  the 
largest  possible  cloud  of  powdered  dirt  to  the  already 
murky  atmosphere  of  the  vicinity. 

Suddenly  they  stood  still. 

For  a  long,  silent  moment  they  gazed  at  a  rickety 
old  wooden J  stairway  that,  at  this  point  in  the 
unbroken  line  of  cliffs,  climbs  zigzag  up  the  face  of 
the  rock-buttressed  wall.  Then,  as  if  moved  by  a 
common  impulse,  they  faced  each  other.  The  quick 
fire  of  adventure  kindled  in  the  eyes  of  the  boy 
as  he  met  the  girl's  look  of  understanding. 

"  Let's  go  up — stump  yer,"  he  said,  with  a  dare 
devil  grin. 

"Huh,  yer  wouldn't  dast." 

Womanlike,  she  was  hoping  that  he  would  "dast" 
and,  with  the  true  instinct  of  her  sex,  she  chose 
unerringly  the  one  way  to  bring  about  the  realiza 
tion  of  her  hope. 

Her  companion  met  the  challenge  like  a  man. 
With  a  swaggering  show  of  courage,  he  went  to  the 
stairway  and  climbed  boldy  up — six  full  steps.  Then 

6 


THE   HUT   ON   THE   CLIFF 


he  paused  and  looked  down,  "I  don't  dast,  don't 
I?" 

From  the  lower  step  she  spurred  his  faltering  spirit, 
"Dare  yer — dare  yer — dare  yer." 

He  came  reluctantly  down  two  steps,  "Will  yer 
go  up  if  I  do?" 

She  nodded,  "Uh-huh — but  yer  gotter  go  first." 

He  looked  doubtfully  up  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff 
so  far  above  them.  "Shucks,"  he  said,  with  con 
viction,  "  ain't  nobody  up  there  'cept  old  Inter 
preter,  an'  that  dummy,  Billy  Rand.  I  know 
'cause  Skinny  Davis  an'  Chuck  Wilson,  they  told 
me.  They  was  up — old  Interpreter,  he  can't  do 
nothin'  to  nobody — he  ain't  got  no  legs." 

Gravely  she  considered  with  him  the  possible 
dangers  of  the  proposed  adventure.  "Billy  Rand 
has  got  legs." 

"He  can't  hear  nothin',  though — can't  talk 
neither,"  said  the  leader  of  the  expedition.  "An' 
besides  maybe  he  ain't  there — we  might  catch  him 
out.  What  d'yer  say?  Will  we  chance  it?" 

She  looked  up  doubtfully  toward  the  unknown 
land  above.  "I  dunno,  will  we?" 

"Skinny  an'  Chuck,  they  said  the  Interpreter  give 
'em  cookies — an'  told  'em  stories  too." 

"Cookies,  Gee!     Go  ahead — I'm  a-comin'." 

That  tiny  house  high  on  the  cliff  at  the  head  of  the 
old,  zigzag  stairway,  up  which  the  children  now 
climbed  with  many  doubtful  stops  and  questioning 
fears,  is  a  landmark  of  interest  not  only  to  Millsburgh 
but  to  the  country  people  for  miles  around. 

7 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

Perched  on  the  perilous  brink  of  that  curving  wall 
of  rocks,  with  its  low,  irregular,  patched  and  weather- 
beaten  roof,  and  its  rough-boarded  and  storm-beaten 
walls  half  hidden  in  a  tangle  of  vines  and  bushes,  the 
little  hut  looks,  from  a  distance,  as  though  it  might 
once  have  been  the  strange  habitation  of  some 
gigantic  winged  creature  of  prehistoric  ages.  The 
place  may  be  reached  from  a  seldom-used  road 
that  leads  along  the  steep  hillside,  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  back  from  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  but 
the  principal  connecting  link  between  the  queer 
habitation  and  the  world  is  that  flight  of  rickety 
wooden  steps. 

Taking  advantage  of  an  irregularity  hi  the  line  of 
cliffs,  the  upper  landing  of  the  stairway  is  placed 
at  the  side  of  the  hut.  In  the  rear,  a  small  garden 
is  protected  from  the  uncultivated  life  of  the  hillside 
by  a  fence  of  close-set  pickets.  Across  the  front  of 
the  curious  structure,  well  out  on  the  projecting 
point  of  rocks,  and  reached  only  through  the  interior, 
a  wide,  strongly  railed  porch  overhangs  the  sheer  wall 
like  a  balcony. 

With  f  ast-beating  hearts,  the  two  small  adventurers 
gained  the  top  of  the  stairway.  Cautiously  they 
looked  about — listening,  conferring  in  whispers, 
ready  for  instant,  headlong  retreat. 

The  tall  grasses  and  flowering  weeds  on  the  hillside 
nodded  sleepily  in  the  sunlight.  A  bird  perched 
on  a  near-by  bush  watched  them  with  bright  eyes 
for  a  moment,  then  fearlessly  sought  the  shade  of  the 
vines  that  screened  the  side  of  the  hut.  Save  the 


THE  HUT  ON   THE   CLIFF 


distant,  droning,  moaning  voice  of  the  Mill,  there 
was  no  sound. 

Calling  up  the  last  reserves  of  their  courage,  the 
children  crept  softly  along  the  board  walk  that  con 
nects  the  landing  of  the  stairway  with  the  rude 
dwelling.  Once  again  they  paused  to  look  and 
listen.  Then,  timidly,  they  took  the  last  cautious 
steps  and  stood  in  the  open  doorway.  With  big, 
wondering  eyes  they  stared  into  the  room. 

It  was  a  rather  large  room,  with  a  low-beamed  ceil 
ing  of  unfinished  pine  boards  and  gray,  rough-plas 
tered  walls,  and  wide  windows.  A  green-shaded 
student  lamp  with  a  pile  of  magazines  and  papers 
on  the  table  caught  their  curious  eyes,  and  they 
gazed  in  awe  at  the  long  shelves  of  books  against 
the  wall.  Opposite  the  entrance  where  they  stood 
they  saw  a  strongly  made  workbench.  And  beneath 
this  bench  and  piled  in  that  corner  of  the  room  were 
baskets — dozens  of  them — of  several  shapes  and 
sizes;  while  brackets  and  shelves  above  were  filled 
with  the  materials  of  which  the  baskets  were  woven. 
There  was  very  little  furniture.  The  floors  were 
bare,  the  windows  without  hangings.  It  was  all  so 
different  from  anything  that  these  children  of  the 
Flats  had  ever  seen  that  they  felt  then*  adventure 
assuming  proportions. 

For  what  seemed  a  long  time,  the  boy  and  the  girl 
stood  there,  hesitating,  on  the  threshold,  expecting 
something — anything — to  happen.  Then  the  lad 
ventured  a  bold  step  or  two  into  the  room.  His  sister 
followed  timidly. 

They  were  facing  hungrily  toward  an  open  door 

9 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

that  led,  evidently,  to  the  kitchen,  when  a  deep 
voice  from  somewhere  behind  them  said,  "How  do 
you  do?" 

Startled  nearly  out  of  their  small  wits,  the 
adventurers  whirled  to  escape,  but  the  voice  halted 
them  with,  "Don't  go.  You  came  to  see  me,  didn't 
you?" 

The  voice,  though  so  deep  and  strong,  was  unmis 
takably  kind  and  gentle-^quite  the  gentlest  voice, 
in  fact,  that  these  children  had  ever  heard. 

Hesitatingly,  they  went  again  into  the  room,  and 
now,  turning  their  backs  upon  the  culinary  end  of  the 
apartment,  they  saw,  through  the  doorway  opening 
on  to  the  balcony  porch,  a  man  seated  in  a  wheel 
chair.  In  his  lap  he  held  a  half-finished  basket. 

For  a  little  while  the  man  regarded  them  with 
grave,  smiling  eyes  as  though,  understanding  their 
fears,  he  would  give  them  time  to  gain  courage. 
Then  he  said,  gently,  "Won't  you  come  out  here 
on  the  porch  and  visit  with  me?" 

The   boy  and   the    girl    exchanged    questioning 
looks. 

"Come  on,"  said  the  man,  encouragingly. 

Perhaps   the   sight   of   that  wheel  chair*  recalled 

to  the  boy's  mind  the  reports  of  his  friends,  Skinny 

^huck.     Perhaps  it  was  something  in  the  man 

himself  that  appealed  to  the  unerring  instincts  of 

the  child      The  doubt  and  hesitation  in  the  urchin's 

freckled  face  suddenly  gave  way  to  a  look  of  reckless 

daring  and  he  marched  forward  with  the  swaggering 

air  of  an  infant  bravado.     Shyly  the  little  girl  fol- 

lowed. 


10 


THE   HUT  ON   THE   CLIFF 


Invariably  one's  first  impression  of  that  man  in 
the  wheel  chair  was  a  thought  of  the  tremendous 
physical  strength  and  vitality  that  must  once  have 
been  his.  But  the  great  trunk,  with  its  mighty 
shoulders  and  massive  arms,  that  in  the  years  past 
had  marked  him  in  the  multitude,  was  little  more 
than  a  framework  now.  His  head  with  its  silvery 
white  hair  and  beard — save  that  in  his  countenance 
there  was  a  look  of  more  venerable  age — reminded 
one  of  the  sculptor  Rodin.  These  details  of  the 
man's  physical  appearance  held  one's  thoughts  but 
for  a  moment.  One  look  into  the  calm  depths  of 
those  dark  eyes  that  were  filled  with  such  an  inde 
scribable  mingling  of  pathetic  courage,  of  patient 
fortitude,  and  of  sorrowful  authority,  and  one  so  in 
stantly  felt  the  dominant  spiritual  and  mental 
personality  of  this  man  that  all  else  about  him  was 
forgotten. 

Squaring  himself  before  his  host,  the  boy  said, 
aggressively,  "I  know  who  yer  are.  Yer  are  the 
Interpreter.  I  know  'cause  yer  ain't  got  no  legs." 

"Yes,"  returned  the  old  basket  maker,  still  smiling, 
"I  am  the  Interpreter.  At  least,"  he  continued, 
"that  is  what  the  people  call  me."  Then,  as  he 
regarded  the  general  appearance  of  the  children, 
and  noted  particularly  the  tired  face  and  pathetic 
eyes  of  the  little  girl,  his  smile  was  lost  hi  a  look  of 
brooding  sorrow  and  his  deep  voice  was  sad  and 
gentle,  as  he  added,  "But  some  things  I  find  very 
hard  to  interpret." 

The  girl,  with  a  shy  smile,  went  a  little  nearer. 

The  boy,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  covering 

11 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

that  in  spite  of  the  heat  of  the  day  hid  the  man  in 
the  wheel  chair  from  his  waist  down,  said  with  the 
cruel  insistency  of  childhood,  "Ain't  yer  got  no  legs — 
honest,  now,  ain't  yer?" 

The  Interpreter  laughed  understandingly.  Plac 
ing  the  unfinished  basket  on  a  low  table  that  held 
his  tools  and  the  material  for  his  work  within  reach 
of  his  hand,  he  threw  aside  the  light  shawl.  "See!" 
he  said. 

For  a  moment  the  children  gazed,  breathlessly,  at 
those  shrunken  and  twisted  limbs  that  resembled 
the  limbs  of  a  strong  man  no  more  than  the  empty, 
flapping  sleeves  of  a  scarecrow  resemble  the  arms  of 
a  living  human  body. 

"They  are  legs  all  right,"  said  the  Interpreter, 
still  smiling,  "but  they're  not  much  good,  are  they? 
Do  you  think  you  could  beat  me  in  a  race?  " 

"Gee!"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

Two  bright  tears  rolled  down  the  thin,  dirty  cheeks 
of  the  little  girl's  tired  face,  and  she  turned  to  look 
away  over  the  dirty  Flats,  the  smoke-grimed  mills, 
and  the  golden  fields  of  grain  in  the  sunshiny  valley, 
to  something  that  she  seemed  to  see  in  the  far 
distant  sky. 

With  a  quick  movement  the  Interpreter  again  hid 
his  useless  limbs. 

"And  now  don't  you  think  you  might  tell  me 
about  yourselves?  What  is  your  name,  my  boy?" 

"I'm  Bobby  Whaley,"  answered  the  lad.  "She's 
my  sister,  Maggie." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  Interpreter.  "Your  father  is 
Sam  Whaley.  He  works  in  the  Mill." 

12 


THE  HUT  ON  THE   CLIFF 


"Uh-huh,  some  of  the  time  he  works — when  there 
ain't  no  strikes  ner  nothinV 

The  Interpreter,  with  his  eyes  on  that  dark  cloud 
that  hung  above  the  forest  of  grim  stacks,  appeared 
to  attach  rather  more  importance  to  Bobby's  reply 
than  the  lad's  simple  words  would  justify. 

Then,  looking  gravely  at  Sam  Whaley's  son,  he 
said,  "  And  you  will  work  in  the  Mill,  too,  I  suppose, 
when  you  grow  up?" 

"I  dunno,"  returned  the  boy.  "I  ain't  much 
stuck  on  work.  An'  dad,  he  says  it  don't  git  yer 
nothin',  nohow." 

"I  see,"  mused  the  Interpreter,  and  he  seemed  to 
see  much  more  than  lay  on  the  surface  of  the  child's 
characteristic  expression. 

The  little  girl  was  still  gazing  wistfully  at  the  far 
away  line  of  hills. 

As  if  struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  the  Interpreter 
asked,  "Your  father  is  working  now,  though,  isn't 
he?" 

"  Uh-huh,  just  now  he  is." 

"I  suppose  then  you  are  not  hungry." 

At  this  wee  Maggie  turned  quickly  from  contem 
plating  the  distant  horizon  to  consider  the  possible 
meaning  in  the  man's  remark. 

For  a  moment  the  children  looked  at  each  other. 
Then,  as  a  grin  of  anticipation  spread  itself  over  his 
freckled  face,  the  boy  exclaimed,  "Hungry!  Gosh! 
Mister  Interpreter,  we're  allus  hungry!" 

For  the  first  time  the  little  girl  spoke,  in  a  thin, 
piping  voice,  "Skinny  an'  Chuck,  they  said  yer 
give  'em  cookies.  Didn't  they,  Bobby?" 

13 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

"TJh-huh,"  agreed  Bobby,  hopefully. 

The  man  in  the  wheel  chair  laughed.  "If  you 
go  into  the  house  and  look  in  the  bottom  part  of  that 
cupboard  near  the  kitchen  door  you  will  find  a  big 
jar  and " 

But  Bobby  and  Maggie  had  disappeared. 

The  children  had  found  the  jar  in  the  cupboard 
and,  with  their  hands  and  their  mouths  filled  with 
cookies,  were  gazing  at  each  other  in  unbelieving 
wonder  when  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  bare  floor  of 
the  kitchen  startled  them.  One  look  through  the 
open  doorway  and  they  fled  with  headlong  haste 
back  to  the  porch,  where  they  unhesitatingly  sought 
refuge  behind  their  friend  in  the  wheel  chair. 

The  object  of  their  fears  appeared  a  short  moment 
behind  them. 

"Oh,"  said  the  Interpreter,  reaching  out  to  draw 
little  Maggie  within  the  protecting  circle  of  his  arm, 
"  it  is  Billy  Rand.  You  don't  need  to  fear  Billy. ' ' 

The  man  who  stood  looking  kindly  down  upon 
them  was  fully  as  tall  and  heavy  as  the  Interpreter 
had  been  in  those  years  before  the  accident  that 
condemned  him  to  his  chair.  But  Billy  Rand  lacked 
the  commanding  presence  that  had  once  so  distin 
guished  his  older  friend  and  guardian.  His  age  was 
somewhere  between  twenty  and  thirty;  but  his 
face  was  still  the  face  of  an  overgrown  and  rather 
slow-witted  child. 

Raising  his  hands,  Billy  Rand  talked  to  the  Inter 
preter  in  the  sign  language  of  the  deaf  and  dumb. 
The  Interpreter  replied  in  the  same  manner  and, 

14 


THE   HUT  ON  THE  CLIFF 


with  a  smiling  nod  to  the  children,  Billy  returned  to 
the  garden  in  the  rear  of  the  house. 

Tiny  Maggie's  eyes  were  big  with  wonder. 

1 '  Gee ! ' '  breathed  Bobby.  ' '  He  sure  enough  can' t 
talk,  can  he?" 

"No,"  returned  the  Interpreter.  "Poor  Billy  has 
never  spoken  a  word." 

"Gee!"  said  Bobby  again.  "An'  can't  he  hear 
nothin,'  neither?" 

"No,  Bobby,  he  has  never  heard  a  sound." 

Too  awe-stricken  even  to  repeat  his  favorite  excla 
mation,  the  boy  munched  his  cooky  in  silence,  while 
Maggie,  enjoying  her  share  of  the  old  basket  maker's 
hospitality,  snuggled  a  little  closer  to  the  wheel  of  the 
big  chair. 

"Billy  Rand,  you  see,"  explained  the  Interpreter, 
"is  my  legs." 

Bobby  laughed.     "Funny  legs,  I'd  say." 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  Interpreter,  "but  very  good  legs 
just  the  same.  Billy  runs  all  sorts  of  errands  for 
me — goes  to  town  to  sell  our  baskets  and  to  bring 
home  our  groceries,  helps  about  the  house  and  does 
many  things  that  I  can't  do.  He  is  hoeing  the 
garden  this  afternoon.  He  comes  in  every  once  in  a 
while  to  ask  if  I  want  anything.  He  sleeps  in  a  little 
room  next  to  mine  and  sometimes  in  the  night,  when 
I  am  not  resting  well,  I  hear  him  come  to  my  bed 
side  to  see  if  I  am  all  right." 

"An'  yer  keep  him  an'  take  care  of  him?"  asked 
Bobby. 

"Yes,"  returned  the  Interpreter,  "I  take  care  of 
Billy  and  Billy  takes  care  of  me.  He  has  fine  legs 

15 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

but  not  much  of  a — but  cannot  speak  or  hear.  I 
can  talk  and  hear  and  think  but  have  no  legs.  So 
with  my  reasonably  good  head  and  his  very  good 
legs  we  make  a  fairly  good  man,  you  see." 

Bobby  laughed  aloud  and  even  wee  Maggie 
chuckled  at  the  Interpreter's  quaint  explanation 
of  himself  and  Billy  Rand. 

"Funny  kind  of  a  man,"  said  Bobby. 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  Interpreter,  "but  most  of  us 
men  are  funny  in  one  way  or  another — aren't  we, 
Maggie?"  He  looked  down  into  the  upturned  face 
of  that  tiny  wisp  of  humanity  at  his  side. 

Maggie  smiled  gravely  in  answer. 

Very  confident  now  in  his  superiority  over  the 
Interpreter,  whose  deaf  and  dumb  legs  were  safely 
out  of  sight  in  the  garden  back  of  the  house,  Bobby 
finished  the  last  of  his  cookies,  and  began  to  explore. 
Accompanying  his  investigations  with  a  running  fire 
of  questions,  he  fingered  the  unfinished  basket  and 
the  tools  and  material  on  the  table,  examined  the 
wheel  chair,  and  went  from  end  to  end  of  the 
balcony  porch.  Hanging  over  the  railing,  he  looked 
down  from  every  possible  angle  upon  the  rocks,  the 
stairway  and  the  dusty  road  below.  Exhausting, 
at  last,  the  possibilities  of  the  immediate  vicinity,  he 
turned  his  inquiring  gaze  upon  the  more  distant 
landscape. 

' '  Gee !    Yer  can  see  a  lot  from  here,  can't  yer? ' ' 

"Yes,"  returned  the  Interpreter,  gravely,  "you 
can  certainly  see  a  lot.  And  do  you  know,  Bobby, 
it  is  strange,  but  what  you  see  depends  almost  wholly 
on  what  you  are?  " 

16 


THE   HUT  ON  THE   CLIFF 


The  boy  turned  his  freckled  face  toward  the  Inter 
preter.  "Huh?" 

"I  mean/'  explained  the  Interpreter,  "that  differ 
ent  people  see  different  things.  Some  who  come  to 
visit  me  can  see  nothing  but  the  Mill  over  there; 
some  see  only  the  Flats  down  below;  others  see  the 
stores  and  offices;  others  look  at  nothing  but  the 
different  houses  on  the  hillsides;  still  others  can  see 
nothing  but  the  farms.  It  is  funny,  but  that's  the 
way  it  is  with  people,  Bobby." 

"Aw — what  are  yer  givin'  us?"  returned  Bobby, 
and,  with  an  unmistakably  superior  air,  he  faced 
again  toward  the  scene  before  them.  "I  can  see 
the  whole  darned  thing — I  can." 

The  Interpreter  laughed.  "And  that,"  he  said, 
"is  exactly  what  every  one  says,  Bobby.  But,  after 
all,  they  don't  see  the  whole  darned  thing — they 
only  think  they  do." 

"Huh,"  retorted  the  boy,  scornfully,  "I  guess  I 
can  see  the  Mill,  can't  I? — over  there  by  the  river — 
with  the  smoke  a-rollin'  out  of  her  chimneys?  Lis 
ten,  I  can  hear  her,  too." 

Faintly,  on  a  passing  breath  of  air,  came  the  heavy 
droning,  moaning  voice  of,  the  Mill. 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  Interpreter,  with  an  odd  note  in 
his  deep,  kindly  voice,  "I  can  nearly  always  hear  it. 
I  was  sure  you  would  see  the  Mill." 

"An'  look-ee,  look-ee,"  shouted  the  boy,  for 
getting,  in  his  quick  excitement,  to  maintain  this 
superior  air,  "look-ee,  Mag!  Come  here,  quick." 
With  energetic  gestures  he  beckoned  his  sister  to  his 
side.  "Look-ee,  right  over  there  by  that  bunch  of 

17 


HELEN  OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

dust,  see?  It's  our  house — where  we  live.  That 
there's  Tony's  old  place  on  the  corner.  An'  there's 
the  lot  where  us  kids  plays  ball.  Gee,  yer  could 
almost  see  mom  if  she'd  only  come  outside  to  talk 
to  Missus  Graf  ton  er  somethin'!" 

From  his  wheel  chair  the  Interpreter  watched  the 
children  at  the  porch  railing.  "  Of  course  you  would 
see  your  home,"  he  said,  gravely.  "The  Mill  first, 
and  then  the  place  where  you  live.  Nearly  every 
one  sees  those  things  first.  Now  tell  what  else  you 
see." 

"I  see,  I  see "  The  boy  hesitated.  There  was 

so  much  to  be  seen  from  the  Interpreter's  balcony 
porch. 

The  little  girl's  thin  voice  piped  up  with  shrill 
eagerness,  "Look  at  the  pretty  yeller  fields  an'  the 
green  trees  away  over  there  across  the  river,  Bobby. 
Gee,  but  wouldn't  yer  just  love  to  be  over  there 
an' — an' — roll  'round  in  the  grass,  an'  pick  flowers, 
an'  every  thing?" 

"Huh,"  retorted  Bobby.  " Look-ee,  that  there's 
Mclver's  factory  up  the  river  there.  It's  'most  as 
big  as  the  Mill.  An'  see  all  the  stores  an'  barber 
shops  an'  things  downtown — an'  look-ee,  there's  the 
courthouse  where  the  jail  is  an' " 

Maggie  chimed  in  with,  "An'  all  the  steeples  of 
the  churches — an'  everythin'." 

"An'  right  down  there,"  continued  the  boy,  point-, 
ing  more  toward  the  east  where,  at  the  edge  of  the 
Flats,  the  ground  begins  to  rise  toward  the  higher 
slope  of  the  hills,  "in  that  there  bunch  of  trees  is 
where  Pete  Martin  lives,  an'  Mary  an'  Captain 

18 


THE   HUT   ON  THE   CLIFF 


Charlie.  Look-ee,  Mag,  yer  can  see  the  little  white 
house  a-showin'  through  the  green  leaves." 

"You  know  the  Martins,  do  you?"  asked  the 
Interpreter. 

"You  bet  we  do,"  returned  Bobby,  without  tak 
ing  his  gaze  from  the  scene  before  him,  while  Maggie 
confirmed  her  brother's  words  by  turning  to  look 
shyly  at  her  new-found  friend.  "Pete  and  Charlie 
they  work  in  the  Mill.  Charlie  he  was  a  captain  in 
the  war.  He's  one  of  the  head  guys  in  our  union 
now.  Mary  she  used  to  give  us  stuff  to  eat  when 
dad  was  a-strikin'  the  last  time." 

"An'  look-ee,"  continued  the  boy,  "right  there 
next  to  the  Martins'  yer  can  see  the  old  house  where 
Adam  Ward  used  to  live  before  the  Mill  made  him 
rich  an'  he  moved  to  his  big  place  up  on  the  hill.  I 
know  'cause  I  heard  dad  an'  another  man  talkin' 
'bout  it  onct.  Ain't  nobody  lives  in  the  old  house 
now.  She's  all  tumbled  down  with  windows  broke 

an'    everything.      I   wonder "     He   paused   to 

search  the  hillside  to  the  east.  "Yep,"  he  shouted, 
pointing,  "there  she  is — there's  the  castle — there's 
where  old  Adam  an'  his  folks  lives  now.  Some  place 
to  live  I'd  say.  Gee,  but  wouldn't  I  like  to  put  a 
chunk  o'  danermite  er  somethin'  under  there!  I'd 
blow  the  whole  darned  thing  into  nothin'  at  all  an' 
that  old  devil  Adam  with  it.  I'd " 

Little  Maggie  caught  her  warlike  brother's  arm. 
"But,  Bobby — Bobby,  yer  wouldn't  dast  to  do 
that,  yer  know  yer  wouldn't!" 

"Huh,"  returned  the  boy,  scornfully.  "I'd  show 
yer  if  I  had  a  chanct." 

19 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

"But,  Bobby,  yer'd  maybe  kill  the  beautiful  prin 
cess  lady  if  yer  was  to  blow  up  the  castle  an'  every- 
thin'." 

"Aw  shucks,"  returned  the  boy,  shaking  off  his 
sister's  hand  with  manly  impatience.  "Couldn't  I 
wait  'til  she  was  away  somewheres  else  'fore  I 
touched  it  off?  An',  anyway,  what  if  yer  wonder 
ful  princess  lady  tuns  to  git  hurt.  I  guess  she's  one 
of  'em,  ain't  she?" 

Poor  Maggie,  almost  in  tears,  was  considering  this 
doubtful  reassurance  when  Bobby  suddenly  pointed 
again  toward  that  pretentious  estate  on  the  hillside, 
and  cried  in  quick  excitement:  "Look-ee,  Mag, 
there's  a  autermobile  a-comin'  out  from  the  castle, 
right  now — see?  She's  a-goin'  down  the  hill  toward 
town.  Who'll  yer  bet  it  is?  Old  Adam  Ward  his- 
self,  heh?" 

Little  Maggie's  face  brightened  joyously.  "May-4 
be  it's  the  princess  lady,  Bobby." 

"And  who  is  this  that  you  call  the  princess  lady, 
Maggie?"  asked  the  Interpreter. 

Bobby  answered  for  his  sister.  "Aw,  she  means 
old  Adam's  daughter.  She's  allus  a-callin'  her  that 
an'  a-makin'  up  stories  about  her." 

"Oh,  so  you  know  Miss  Helen  Ward,  too,  do 
you?"  The  Interpreter  was  surprised. 

The  boy  turned  his  back  on  the  landscape  as 
though  it  held  nothing  more  of  interest  to  him. 
"Naw,  we've  just  seen  her,  that's  all." 

Stealing  timidly  back  to  the  side  of  the  wheel 
chair,  the  little  girl  looked  wistfully  up  into  the 

20 


THE  HUT  ON   THE   CLIFF 


Interpreter's  face.     "Do  yer — do  yer  know  the  prin 
cess  lady  what  lives  in  the  castle?"  she  asked. 

The  old  basket  maker,  smiling  down  at  her,  an 
swered,  "Yes,  dear,  I  have  known  your  princess  lady 
ever  since  she  was  a  tiny  baby — much  smaller 
than  you.  And  did  you  know,  Maggie,  that  she  was 
born  in  the  old  house  down  there,  next  door  to 
Charlie  and  Mary  Martin?" 

"An' — an'  did  she  live  there  when  she  was — when 
she  was  as  big  as  me?" 

Bobby  interrupted  with  an  important  "Huh,  I 
know  her  brother  John  is  a  boss  in  the  Mill.  He 
was  in  the  war,  too,  with  Captain  Charlie.  Did  he 
live  in  the  old  house  when  he  was  a  kid?" 

"Yes." 

"An' — an'  when  the  princess  lady  was  little  like 
me,  an'  lived  in  the  old  house,  did  yer  play  with  her?  " 
asked  Maggie. 

The  Interpreter  laughed  softly.  "Yes,  indeed, 
often.  You  see  I  worked  in  the  Mill,  too,  hi  those 
days,  Maggie,  with  her  father  and  Peter  Martin 
and- 

"That  was  when  yer  had  yer  real,  sure-nuff  legs, 
wasn't  it?"  the  boy  interrupted. 

"Yes,  Bobby.  And  every  Sunday,  almost,  I  used 
to  be  at  the  old  house  where  the  little  princess  lady 
lived,  or  at  the  Martin  home  next  door,  and  Helen 
and  John  and  Charlie  and  Mary  and  I  would  al 
ways  have  such  good  times  together." 

Little  Maggie's  face  shone  with  appreciative  inter 
est.  "An'  did  yer  tell  them  fairy  stories  some 
times?" 

21 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

"Sometimes." 

The  little  girl  sighed  and  tried  to  get  still  closer 
to  the  man  in  the  wheel  chair.  "I  like  fairies, 
don't  yer?" 

"  Indeed,  I  do,"  he  answered  heartily. 

"Skinny  and  Chuck,  they  said  yer  toP  them  stories, 
too." 

The  Interpreter  laughed  quietly.  "I  expect  per 
haps  I  did." 

"I  don't  suppose  yer  know  any  fairy  stories  right 
now,  do  yer?" 

"Let  me  see,"  said  the  Interpreter,  seeming  to 
think  very  hard.  "Why,  yes,  I  believe  I  do  know 
one.  It  starts  out  like  this :  Once  upon  a  time  there 
was  a  jmost  beautiful  princess,  just  like  your  princess 
lady,  who  lived  in  a  most  wonderful  palace.  Isn't 
that  the  way  for  a  fairy  story  to  begin?" 

"Uh-huh,  that's  the  way.  An'  then  what  hap 
pened?" 

With  a  great  show  of  indifference  the  boy  drew  near 
and  stretched  himself  on  the  floor  on  the  other  side 
of  the  old  basket  maker's  chair. 

"Well,  this  beautiful  princess  in  the  story,  per 
haps  because  she  was  so  beautiful  herself,  loved  more 
than  anything  else  in  all  the  world  to  have  lots  and 
lots  of  jewels.  You  know  what  jewels  are,  don't 
you?" 

"Uh-huh,  the  princess  lady  she  has  'em — heaps  of 
'em.  I  seen  her  oiict  close,  when  she  was  a-gettm' 
into  her  autermobile,  in  front  of  one  of  them  big 
stores." 

"Well,"  continued  the  story-teller,  "it  was  strange, 

22 


THE   HUT  ON   THE   CLIFF 


but  with  all  her  diamonds  and  pearls  and  rubies  and 
things  there  was  one  jewel  that  the  princess  did  not 
have.  And,  of  course,  she  wanted  that  one  particu 
lar  gem  more  than  all  the  others.  That  is  the  way 
it  almost  always  is,  you  know." 

"  Huh,"  grunted  Bobby. 

"What  was  that  there  jewel  she  wanted?"  asked 
Maggie. 

"  It  was  called  the  jewel  of  happiness,"  answered  the 
Interpreter,  "because  whoever  possessed  it  was  sure 
to  be  always  as  happy  as  happy  could  be.  And  so, 
you  see,  because  she  did  not  have  that  particular 
jewel  the  princess  did  not  have  as  good  times  as 
such  a  beautiful  princess,  living  in  such  a  wonderful 
palace,  with  so  many  lovely  things,  really  ought  to 
have. 

"But  because  this  princess'  heart  was  kind,  a  fairy 
appeared  to  her  one  night,  and  told  her  that  if  she 
would  go  down  to  the  shore  of  the  great  sea  that  was 
not  far  from  the  castle,  and  look  carefully  among  the 
rocks  and  in  the  sand  and  dirt,  she  would  find  the 
jewel  of  happiness.  Then  the  fairy  disappeared — • 
poof!  just  like  that." 

Little  Maggie  squirmed  with  thrills  of  delight. 
"Some  story,  I'd  say.     An'  then  what  happened?" 

"Why,  of  course,  the  very  next  day  the  princess 
went  to  walk  on  the  seashore,  just  as  the  fairy  had 
told  her.  And,  sure  enough,  among  the  rocks  and 
in  the  sand  and  dirt,  she  found  hundreds  and  hun 
dreds  of  bright,  shiny  jewels.  And  she  picked  them 
up,  and  picked  them  up,  and  picked  them  up,  until 
she  just  couldn't  carry  another  one.  Then  she  began 

23 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

to  throw  away  the  smaller  ones  that  she  had  picked 
up  at  first,  and  to  hunt  for  larger  ones  to  take  instead. 
And  then,  all  at  once,  right  there  beside  her,  was  a 
poor,  ragged  and  crooked  old  woman,  and  the  old 
woman  was  picking  up  the  ugly  dirt-colored  pebbles 
that  the  princess  would  not  touch. 

"'What  are  you  doing,  mother?'  asked  the  beauti 
ful  princess,  whose  heart  was  kind. 

"And  the  crooked  old  woman  answered,  'I  am 
gathering  jewels  of  happiness  on  the  shore  of  the 
sea  of  life.' 

"'But  those  ugly,  dirty  pebbles  are  not  jewels, 
mother/  said  the  lady.  'See,  these  are  the  jewels  of 
happiness.'  And  she  showed  the  poor,  ignorant  old 
woman  the  bright,  shiny  stones  that  she  had  gath 
ered. 

"And  the  crooked  old  crone  looked  at  the  princess 
and  laughed — a  curious,  creepy,  crawly,  crooked 
laugh. 

"Then  the  old  woman  offered  to  the  princess  one 
of  the  ugly,  dirt-colored  pebbles  that  she  had  gath 
ered.  '  Take  this,  my  dear,'  she  croaked,  'and  wear 
it,  and  you  shall  see  that  I  am  right — that  this  is 
the  jewel  of  happiness. 

"Now  the  beautiful  princess  did  not  want  to  wear 
that  ugly,  dirt-colored  stone — no  princess  would, 
you  know.  But,  nevertheless,  because  her  heart 
was  kind  and  she  saw  that  the  poor,  crooked  old 
woman  would  feel  very  bad  if  her  gift  was  not 
accepted,  she  took  the  dull,  common  pebble  and 
put  it  with  the  bright,  shiny  jewels  that  she  had 
gathered. 

24 


THE  HUT   ON  THE   CLIFF 


"And  that  very  night  the  fairy  appeared  to  the 
princess  again. 

"'Did  you  do  as  I  told  you?'  the  fairy  asked. 
'  Did  you  look  for  the  jewel  of  happiness  on  the  shore 
of  the  sea  of  life? ' 

"'Oh,  yes/  cried  the  princess.  'And  see  what  a 
world  of  lovely  ones  I  found ! ' 

"The  fairy  looked  at  all  the  pretty,  shiny  stones 
that  the  princess  had  gathered.  'And  what  is  this?' 
the  fairy  asked,  pointing  to  the  ugly,  dirt-colored 
pebble. 

" '  Oh,  that, '  replied  the  princess,  hanging  her  head 
in  embarrassment, — '  that  is  nothing  but  a  worthless 
pebble.  A  poor  old  woman  gave  it  to  me  to  wear 
because  she  thinks  it  is  beautiful.' 

" 'But  you  will  not  wear  the  ugly  thing,  will  you?' 
asked  the  f airy .  '  Think  how  every  one  would  point 
at  you,  and  laugh,  and  call  you  strange  and  foolish.' 

"'I  know,'  answered  the  princess,  sadly,  'but  I 
must  wear  it  because  I  promised,  and  because  if  I 
did  not  and  the  poor  old  lady  should  see  me  with 
out  it,  she  would  be  so  very,  very  unhappy/ 

"And,  would  you  believe  it,  no  sooner  had  the 
beautiful  princess  said  those  words  than  the  fairy 
disappeared — poof!  just  like  that!  And  right  there, 
on  the  identical  spot  where  she  had  been,  was  that 
old  ragged  and  crooked  woman. 

" ' Oh! '  cried  the  princess. 

"And  the  old  woman  laughed  her  curious,  creepy, 
crawly,  crooked  laugh.  '  Don't  be  afraid,  my  dear/ 
she  said,  'you  shall  have  your  jewel  of  happiness. 
But  look!'  She  pointed  a  long,  skinny,  crooked 

25 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

finger  at  the  shiny  jewels  on  the  table  and  there 
right  before  the  princess'  eyes,  they  were  all  at  once 
nothing  but  lumps  of  worthless  dirt. 

"'Oh!'  screamed  the  princess  again.  'All  my 
lovely  jewels  of  happiness?' 

"'But  look,'  said  the  old  woman  again,  and  once 
more  pointed  with  her  skinny  finger.  And  would 
you  believe  it,  the  princess  saw  that  ugly,  dirt-colored 
pebble  turn  into  the  most  wonderfully  splendid 
jewel  that  ever  was — the  true  jewel  of  happiness. 

"And  so,"  concluded  the  Interpreter,  "the  beauti 
ful  princess  whose  heart  was  kind  lived  happy  ever 
after." 

Little  Maggie  clapped  her  thin  hands  with  delight. 

"Gee,"  said  Bobby,  "wish  I  knowed  where  that 
there  place  was.  I'd  get  me  enough  of  them  there 
jewel  things  to  swap  for  a  autermobile  an'  a — an' 
a  flyin'  machine." 

"If  you  keep  your  eyes  open,  Bobby,"  answered 
the  old  basket  maker,  "you  will  find  the  place  all 
right.  Only,"  he  added,  looking  away  toward  the 
big  house  on  the  hill,  "you  must  be  very  careful  not 
to  make  the  mistake  that  the  princess  lady  is  mak 
ing — I  mean,"  he  corrected  himself  with  a  smile, 
"you  must  be  careful  not  to  pick  up  only  the  bright 
and  shiny  pebbles  as  the  princess  in  the  story  did." 

"Huh — I  guess  I'd  know  better'n  that,"  retorted 
the  boy.  "Come  on,  Mag,  we  gotter  go." 

"You  will  come  to  see  me  again,  won't  you?"  asked 
the  Interpreter,  as  the  children  stood  on  the  thresh 
old.  "You  have  legs,  you  know,  that  can  easily 
bring  you." 

26 


THE   HUT  ON   THE   CLIFF 


"Yer  bet  we'll  come,"  said  Bobby,  " won't  we, 
Mag?" 

The  little  girl,  looking  back  at  the  man  in  the 
wheel  chair,  smiled. 

For  some  time  after  the  children  had  gone  the 
Interpreter  sat  very  still.  His  dark  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  Mill  with  its  tall,  grim  stacks  and  the 
columns  of  smoke  that  twisted  upward  to  form  that 
overshadowing  cloud.  The  voices  of  the  children, 
as  they  started  down  the  stairway  to  the  dusty  road 
and  to  their  wretched  home  in  the  Flats,  came  to  him 
muffled  and  indistinct  from  under  the  cliff. 

Perhaps  the  man  in  the  wheel  chair  was  think 
ing  of  the  days  when  Maggie's  princess  lady  was  a 
little  girl  and  lived  in  the  old  house  next  door  to  Mary 
and  Charlie  Martin.  Perhaps  his  mind  still  dwelt 
on  the  fairy  story  and  the  princess  who  found  her 
jewel  of  happiness.  It  may  have  been  that  he  was 
listening  to  tae  droning,  moaning  voice  of  the  Mill, 
as  one  listens  to  the  distant  roar  of  the  surf  on  a 
dangerous  coast. 

With  a  weary  movement  he  took  the  unfinished 
basket  from  the  table  and  began  to  work.  But  it 
was  not  his  basket  making  that  caused  the  weari 
ness  of  the  Interpreter — it  was  not  his  work  that  put 
the  light  of  sorrow  in  his  dark  eyes. 

As  Bobby  and  Maggie  went  leisurely  down  the 
zigzag  steps,  proud  of  the  tremendous  success  of 
their  adventure,  the  boy  paused  several  tunes  to- 

27 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

execute  an  inspirational  "stunt"  that  would  in  some 
degree  express  his  triumphant  emotions. 

"Gee!"  he  exulted.  "Wait  'til  I  see  Skinny  and 
Chuck  an'  the  rest  of  the  gang!  Gee,  won't  I  tell 
'em!  Just  yer  wait.  I'll  knock  'em  dead.  Gee!" 

On  the  bottom  step  they  deliberately  seated  them 
selves  as  if  they  had  suddenly  found  the  duty  of 
leaving  the  charmed  vicinity  of  that  hut  on  the  cliff 
above  impossible. 

Suddenly,  from  around  the  curve  hi  the  road  fol 
lowed  by  a  whirling  cloud  of  dust,  came  an  automo 
bile.  It  was  a  big  car,  very  imposing  with  its  shiny 
black  body,  its  gleaming  metal,  and  its  liveried 
chauffeur. 

The  children  gazed  hi  open-mouthed  wonder. 
The  car  drew  nearer,  and  they  saw,  behind  the  digni 
fied  personality  at  the  wheel,  a  lady  who  might  well 
have  been  the  beautiful  princess  of  the  Interpreter's 
fairy  tale. 

Little  Maggie  caught  her  brother's  arm.  "  Bobby ! 
It's — it's  her — it's  the  princess  lady  herself." 

" Gee! "  gasped  the  boy.  "She's  a  slowin'  down— 
what  d'yer— 

The  automobile  stopped  not  thirty  feet  from  where 
the  children  sat  on  the  lower  step  of  the  old  stairway. 
Springing  to  the  ground,  the  chauffeur,  with  the 
dignity  of  a  prime  minister,  opened  the  door. 

But  the  princess  lady  sat  motionless  in  her  car. 
With  an  expression  of  questioning  disapproval  she 
looked  at  the  Interpreter's  friends  on  that  lower 
step  of  the  Interpreter's  stairway. 


CHAPTER  II 

LITTLE  MAGGIE'S  PRINCESS  LADY 

Y  nine  out  of  ten  of  the  Millsburgh  people,  the 
Interpreter  would  be  described  as  a  strange 
character.  But  the  judge  once  said  to  the 
cigar-store  philosopher,  when  that  worthy  had  so 
spoken  of  the  old  basket  maker,  "Sir,  the  Inter 
preter  is  more  than  a  character;  he  is  a  conviction,  a 
conscience,  an  institution." 

It  was  about  the  time  when  the  patents  on  the  new 
process  were  issued  that  the  Interpreter — or  Wallace 
Gordon,  as  he  was  then  known — appeared  from  no 
one  knows  where,  and  went  to  work  in  the  Mill. 
Because  of  the  stranger's  distinguished  appearance 
his  evident  culture,  and  his  slightly  foreign  air, 
there  were  many  who  sought  curiously  to  learn  his 
history.  But  Wallace  Gordon's  history  remained 
as  it,  indeed,  remains  still,  an  unopened  book. 
Within  a  few  months  his  ability  to  speak  several  of 
the  various  languages  spoken  by  the  immigrants  who 
were  drawn  to  the  manufacturing  city  caused  his 
fellow  workers  to  call  him  the  Interpreter. 

Working  at  the  same  bench  in  the  Mill  with  Adam 
Ward  and  Peter  Martin,  the  Interpreter  naturally 
jaw  much  of  the  two  families  that,  in  those  days 
lived  such  close  neighbors.  Sober,  hard  working 
modest  in  his  needs,  he  acquired,  during  his  first  year 
in  the  Mill,  that  little  plot  of  ground  on  the  edge 

29 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

of  the  cliff,  and  built  the  tiny  hut  with  its  zigzag 
stairway.  But  often  on  a  Sunday  or  a  holiday,  or 
for  an  hour  of  the  long  evenings  after  work,  this 
man  who  was  so  alone  in  the  world  would  seek 
companionship  in  the  homes  of  his  two  workmen 
friends.  The  four  children,  who  were  so  much 
together  that  their  mothers  used  to  say  laughingly 
they  could  scarcely  tell  which  were  Wards  and  which 
were  Martins,  claimed  the  Interpreter  as  their  own. 
With  his  never-failing  fund  of  stories,  his  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  fairies,  his  ready  under 
standing  of  then*  childish  interests,  and  his  joyous 
comradeship  in  their  sports,  he  won  his  own  peculiar 
place  in  their  hearts. 

It  was  during  the  second  year  of  his  residence  in 
Millsburgh  that  he  adopted  the  deaf  and  dumb 
orphan  boy,  Billy  Rand. 

That  such  a  workman  should  become  a  leader 
among  his  fellow  workers  was  inevitable.  More 
and  more  his  advice  and  counsel  were  sought  by 
those  who  toiled  under  the  black  cloud  that  rolled  up 
in  ever-increasing  volumes  from  the  roaring  fur 
naces. 

The  accident  which  so  nearly  cost  him  his  life 
occurred  soon  after  the  new  process  had  taken  Adam 
from  his  bench  to  a  desk  in  the  office  of  the  Mill. 
Helen  and  John  were  away  at  school.  At  the  hos 
pital  they  asked  him  about  his  people.  He  smiled 
grimly  and  shook  his  head.  When  the  surgeons  were 
finally  through  with  him,  and  it  was  known  that 
he  would  live  but  could  never  stand  on  his  feet  again, 
he  was  still  silent  as  to  his  family  and  his  life  before 

30 


LITTLE  MAGGIE'S  PRINCESS   LADY 

he  came  to  the  Mill.  So  they  carried  him  around 
by  the  road  on  the  hillside  to  his  little  hut  on  the 
top  of  the  cliff  where,  with  Billy  Rand  to  help  him, 
he  made  baskets  and  lived  with  his  books,  which  he 
purchased  as  he  could  from  time  to  time  during  the 
more  profitable  periods  of  his  industry. 

As  the  years  passed  and  the  Mill,  under  Adam 
Ward's  hand,  grew  in  importance,  Millsburgh  experi 
enced  the  usual  trials  of  such  industrial  centers. 
Periodic  labor  wars  alternated  with  tunes  of  indus 
trial  peace.  Months  of  prosperity  were  followed  by 
months  of  "hard  times,"  and  want  was  in  turn  suc 
ceeded  by  plenty.  When  the  community  was  at 
work  the  more  intelligent  and  thrifty  among  those 
who  toiled  with  their  hands  and  the  more  conserva 
tive  of  those  who  labored  in  business  were  able  to 
put  by  in  store  enough  to  tide  them  over  the  next 
period  of  idleness  and  consequent  business  depression. 

From  his  hut  on  the  cliff  the  Interpreter  watched 
it  all  with  never-failing  interest  and  sympathy. 
Indeed,  although  he  never  left  his  work  of  basket 
making,  the  Interpreter  was  a  part  of  it  all.  For 
more  and  more  the  workers  from  the  Mill,  the  shops 
and  the  factories,  and  the  workers  from  the  offices 
and  stores  came  to  counsel  with  this  white-haired 
man  in  the  wheel  chair. 

The  school  years  of  John  and  Helen,  the  new  home 
on  the  hill,  and  all  the  changes  brought  by  Adam 
Ward's  material  prosperity  separated  the  two  families 
that  had  once  been  so  intimate.  But,  in  spite  of  the 
wall  that  the  Mill  owner  had  built  between  himself 
and  his  old  workmen  comrades,  the  children  of  Adam 

31 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

Ward  and  the  children  of  Peter  Martin  still  held  the 
Interpreter  hi  their  hearts.  To  the  man  con 
demned  to  his  wheel  chair  and  his  basket  making, 
little  Maggie's  princess  lady  was  still  the  Helen  of 
the  old  house. 

Sam  Whaley's  children  sitting  on  the  lower  step 
of  the  zigzag  stairway  that  afternoon  had  no  thought 
for  the  Interpreter's  Helen  of  the  old  house.  Bobby's 
rapt  attention  was  held  by  that  imposing  figure  in 
uniform.  Work  in  the  Mill  when  he  became  a  man ! 
Not  much!  Not  as  long  as  there  were  automobiles 
like  that  to  drive  and  clothes  like  those  to  wear  while 
driving  them!  Little  Maggie's  pathetically  serious 
eyes  saw  only  the  beautiful  princess  of  the  Inter 
preter's  story — the  princess  who  lived  in  a  wonderful 
palace  and  who  because  her  heart  was  so  kind  was 
told  by  the  fairy  how  to  find  the  jewel  of  happiness. 
Only  this  princess  lady  did  not  look  as  though  she 
had  found  her  jewel  of  happiness  yet.  But  she  would 
find  it — the  fames  would  be  sure  to  help  her  because 
her  heart  was  kind.  How  could  any  princess  lady— 
so  beautiful,  with  such  lovely  clothes,  and  such  a 
grand  automobile,  and  such  a  wonderful  servant — 
how  could  any  princess  lady  like  that  help  having  a 
kind  heart! 

"Tom,  send  those  dirty,  impossible  children  away!" 

The  man  touched  his  cap  and  turned  to  obey. 

Poor  little  Maggie  could  not  believe.  It  was  not 
what  the  lady  said;  it  was  the  tone  of  her  voice,  the 
expression  of  her  face,  that  hurt  so.  The  princess 
lady  must  be  very  unhappy,  indeed,  to  look  and  speak 

32 


LITTLE   MAGGIE'S  PRINCESS  LADY 

like  that.  And  the  tiny  wisp  of  humanity,  with  her 
thin,  stooping  shoulders  and  her  tired  little  face — 
dirty,  half  clothed  and  poorly  fed — felt  very  sorry 
because  the  beautiful  lady  in  the  automobile  was 
not  happy. 

But  Bobby's  emotions  were  of  quite  a  different 
sort.  Sam  Whaley  would  have  been  proud  of  his 
son  had  he  seen  the  boy  at  that  moment.  Springing 
to  his  feet,  the  lad  snarled  with  all  the  menacing  hate 
he  could  muster,  "Drive  us  away,  will  yer!  I'd 
just  like  to  see  yer  try  it  on.  These  here  are  the 
Interpreter's  steps.  If  the  Interpreter  lets  us  come 
to  see  him,  an'  gives  us  cookies,  an'  tells  us  stories, 
I  guess  we've  got  a  right  to  set  on  his  steps  if  we 
want  to." 

"Go  on  wid  ye — git  out  o'  here,"  said  the  man  in 
livery.  But  Bobby's  sharp  eyes  saw  what  the 
lady  hi  the  automobile  could  not  see — a  faint  smile 
accompanied  the  chauffeur's  attempt  to  obey  his 
orders. 

"Go  on  yerself,"  retorted  the  urchin,  defiantly. 
"  I'll  go  when  I  git  good  an'  ready.  Ain't  no  darned 
rich  folks  what  thinks  they's  so  grand — with  all  then* 
autermobiles,  an'  swell  drivers,  'n'  things — can 
tell  me  what  to  do.  I  know  her — she's  old  Adam 
Ward's  daughter,  she  is.  An'  she  lives  by  grindin' 
the  life  out  of  us  poor  workin'  folks,  that's  what  she 
does;  'cause  my  dad  and  Jake  Vodell  they  say  so. 
Yer  touch  me  an'  yer'll  see  what'll  happen  to  yer, 
when  I  tell  Jake  Vodell." 

Unseen  by  his  mistress,  the  smile  on  the  servant's 
face  grew  more  pronounced;  and  the  small  defender 

33 


of  the  rights  of  the  poor  saw  one  of  the  man's  blue 
Irish  eyes  close  slowly  in  a  deliberate  wink  of  good 
fellowship.  In  a  voice  too  low  to  be  heard  distinctly 
in  the  automobile  behind  him,  he  said,  "Yer  all 
right,  kid,  but  fer  the  love  o'  God  beat  it  before  I 
have  to  lay  hands  on  ye."  Then,  louder,  he  added 
gruffly,  "Get  along  wid  ye  or  do  ye  want  me  to  help 
ye?" 

Bobby  retreated  in  good  order  to  a  position  of 
safety  a  little  way  down  the  road  where  hi's  sister 
was  waiting  for  him. 

With  decorous  gravity  the  imposing  chauffeur 
went  back  to  his  place  at  the  door  of  the  automobile. 

"Gee!"  exclaimed  Bobby.  "What  do  yer  know 
about  that!  Old  Adam  Ward's  swell  daughter 
a-goin'  up  to  see  the  Interpreter.  Gee!" 

On  the  lower  step  of  the  zigzag  stairway,  with 
her  hand  on  the  railing,  the  young  woman  paused 
suddenly  and  turned  about.  To  the  watching  chil 
dren  she  must  have  looked  very  much  indeed  like  the 
beautiful  princess  of  the  Interpreter's  fairy  tale. 

"Tom — "  She  hesitated  and  looked  doubtfully 
toward  the  children. 

"Yes,  Miss." 

"What  was  it  that  boy  said  about  his  rights?" 

"He  said,  Miss,  as  how  they  had  just  been  to  visit 
the  Interpreter  an'  the  old  man  give  'em  cookies,  and 
so  they  thought  they  was  privileged  to  sit  on  his 
steps." 

A  puzzled  frown  marred  the  really  unusual  love 
liness  of  her  face.  "But  that  was  not  all  he  said, 
Tom." 

34 


LITTLE   MAGGIE'S  PRINCESS  LADY 

"  No,  Miss." 

She  looked  upward  to  the  top  of  the  cliff  where 
one  corner  of  the  Interpreter's  hut  was  just  visible 
above  the  edge  of  the  rock.  And  then,  as  the  quick 
light  of  a  smile  drove  away  the  trouble  shadows, 
she  said  to  the  servant,  "Tom,  you  will  take  those 
children  for  a  ride  in  the  car.  Take  them  wherever 
they  wish  to  go,  and  return  here  for  me.  I  shall 
be  ready  in  about  an  hour." 

The  man  gasped.  "  But,  Miss,  beggin'  yer  pardon, 
— the  car — think  av  the  upholsterin' — an'  the  dirt 
av  thim  little  divils — beggin'  yer  pardon,  but  'tis 
ruined  the  car  will  be — an'  yer  gowns!  Please, 
Miss,  I'll  give  them  a  dollar  an'  'twill  do  just  as  well — 
think  av  the  car!" 

"Never  mind  the  car,  Tom,  do  as  I  say, 
please." 

In  spite  of  his  training,  a  pleased  smile  stole  over 
the  Irish  face  of  the  chauffeur;  and  there  was  a  note 
of  ungrudging  loyalty  and  honest  affection  in  his 
voice  as  he  said,  touching  his  cap,  "Yes,  Miss,  I  will 
have  the  car  here  in  an  hour — thank  ye,  Miss." 

A  moment  later  the  young  woman  saw  her  car 
stop  beside  the  wondering  children.  With  all  his 
high-salaried  dignity  the  chauffeur  left  the  wheel 
and  opened  the  door  as  if  for  royalty  itself. 

The  children  stood  as  if  petrified  with  wonder, 
although  the  boy  was  still  a  trifle  belligerent  and 
suspicious. 

In  his  best  manner  the  chauffeur  announced, 
"Miss  Ward's  compliments,  Sir  and  Miss,  an'  she 
has  ordered  me  to  place  her  automobile  at  yer  dis- 

35 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

posal  if  ye  would  be  so  minded  as  to  go  for  a  bit  of  a 
pleasure  ride." 

"Oh!"  gulped  little  Maggie. 

"Aw,  what  are  yer  givin'  us!"  said  Bobby. 

The  man's  voice  changed,  but  his  manner  was 
unaltered.  "'Tis  the  truth  I'm  a-tellin'  ye,  kids, 
wid  the  lady  herself  back  there  a-watchin'  to  see 
that  I  carry  out  her  orders.  So  hop  in,  quick,  and 
don't  keep  her  a-waitin'." 

"Gee!"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

Maggie  looked  at  her  brother  doubtfully.  "Dast 
we,  Bobby?  Dast  we?" 

"Dast  we!— Huh!  Who's  afraid?  I'll  say  we 
dast." 

Another  second  and  they  were  in  the  car.  The 
chauffeur  gravely  touched  his  cap.  "An'  where 
will  I  be  drivin'  ye,  Sir?" 

"Huh?" 

"Where  is  it  ye  would  like  for  to  go?" 

The  two  children  looked  at  each  other  question- 
ingly.  Then  a  grin  of  wild  delight  spread  itself 
over  the  countenance  of  the  boy  and  he  fairly  ex 
ploded  with  triumphant  glee,  "Gee!  Mag,  now's 
our  chance."  To  the  man  he  said,  eagerly,  "Just 
you  take  us  all  'round  the  Flats,  mister,  so's  folks  can 
see.  An' — an',  mind  yer,  toot  that  old  horn  good 
an'  loud,  so  as  everybody'll  know  we're  a-comin'." 
As  the  automobile  moved  away  he  beamed  with 
proud  satisfaction.  "Some  swells  we  are — heh? 
Skinny  an'  Chuck  an'  the  gang'll  be  plumb  crazy 
when  they  see  us.  Some  class,  I'll  tell  the 
world." 

36 


LITTLE  MAGGIE'S  PRINCESS   LADY 

"Well,  why  not?"  demanded  the  cigar-stand  phi 
losopher,  when  Tom  described  that  triumphant 
drive  of  Sam  Whaley's  children  through  the  Flats. 
"Them  kids  was  only  doin'  what  we're  all  a-tryin'  to 
do  in  one  way  or  another." 

The  lawyer,  who  had  stopped  for  a  light,  laughed. 
"I  heard  the  Interpreter  say  once  that  'to  live  on 
some  sort  of  an  elevation  was  to  most  people  one 
of  the  prime  necessities  of  life. ' ' 

"Sure,"  agreed  the  philosopher,  reaching  for 
another  box  for  the  real-estate  agent,  "I'll  bet  old 
Adam  Ward  himself  is  just  as  human  as  the  rest  of 
us  if  you  could  only  catch  him  at  it." 

For  some  time  after  her  car,  with  Bobby  and  Mag 
gie,  had  disappeared  in  its  cloud  of  dust,  among  the 
wretched  buildings  of  the  Flats,  Helen  stood  there, 
on  the  lower  step  of  the  zigzag  stairway,  looking  after 
them.  She  was  thinking,  or  perhaps  she  was  won 
dering  a  little  at  herself.  She  might  even  have  been 
living  again  for  the  moment  those  old-house  days 
when,  with  her  brother  and  Mary  and  Charlie  Martin, 
she  had  played  there  on  these  same  steps. 

Those  old-house  days  had  been  joyous  and  care 
free.  Her  school  years,  too,  had  been  filled  with 
delightful  and  satisfying  activities.  After  her  grad 
uation  she  had  been  content  with  the  gayeties  and 
triumphs  of  the  life  to  which  she  had  been  arbi 
trarily  removed  by  her  father  and  the  new  process, 
and  for  which  she  had  been  educated.  She  had  felt 
the  need  of  nothing  more.  Then  came  the  war,  and, 
in  her  brother's  enlistment  and  in  her  work  with  the 

37 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

various  departments  of  the  women  forces  at  home, 
she  had  felt  herself  a  part  of  the  great  world  move 
ment.  But  now  when  the  victorious  soldiers — 
brothers  and  sweethearts  and  husbands  and  friends — 
had  returned,  and  the  days  of  excited  rejoicing  were 
past,  life  had  suddenly  presented  to  her  a  different 
front.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  find  in  all  Mills- 
burgh,  not  excepting  the  most  wretched  home  in  the 
Flats,  a  more  unhappy  and  discontented  person  than 
this  young  woman  who  was  so  unanimously  held  to 
have  everything  in  the  world  that  any  one  could  pos 
sibly  desire. 

Slowly  she  turned  to  climb  the  zigzag  stairway  to 
the  Interpreter's  hut. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE   INTERPRETER 

THE  young  woman  announced  her  presence  at 
the  open  door  of  the  hut  by  calling,  "Are  you 
there?" 

The  deep  voice  of  the  Interpreter  answered, 
" Helen!  Here  I  am,  child — on  the  porch.  Come!" 
As  she  passed  swiftly  through  the  house  and  appeared 
in  the  porch  doorway,  he  added,  "This  is  a  happy 
surprise,  indeed.  I  thought  you  were  not  expected 
home  for  another  month.  It  seems  ages  since  you 
went  away." 

She  tried  bravely  to  smile  in  response  to  the  glad 
ness  in  her  old  friend's  greeting.  "I  had  planned  to 

stay  another  month,"  she  said,  "but  I She 

paused  as  if  for  some  reason  she  found  it  hard  to 
explain  why  she  had  returned  to  Millsburgh  so  long 
before  the  end  of  the  summer  season.  Then  she 
continued  slowly,  as  if  remembering  that  she  must 
guard  her  words,  "Brother  wrote  me  that  they  were 
expecting  serious  labor  troubles,  and  with  father 

as  he  is "  Her  voice  broke  and  she  finished 

lamely,  "Mother  is  so  worried  and  unhappy.  I — I 
felt  that  I  really  ought  not  to  be  away." 

She  turned  quickly  and  went  to  stand  at  the  porch 
railing,  where  she  watched  the  cloud  of  dust  that 

39 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

marked  the  progress  of  Bobby  and  Maggie  through 
the  Flats. 

"I  can't  understand  father's  condition  at  all," 
she  said,  presently,  without  looking  at  the  Inter 
preter.  "He  is  so — so Again  she  paused  as  if 

she  could  not  find  courage  to  speak  the  thought 
that  so  disturbed  her  mind. 

From  his  wheel  chair  the  Interpreter  silently 
watched  the  young  woman  who  was  so  envied  by 
the  people.  And  because  the  white-haired  old 
basket  maker  knew  many  things  that  were  hidden 
from  the  multitude,  his  eyes  were  as  the  eyes  of  the 
Master  when  He  looked  upon  the  rich  young  ruler 
whom  He  loved. 

Then,  as  if  returning  to  a  thought  that  had  been 
interrupted  by  the  unwelcome  intrusion  of  a  for 
bidden  subject,  Helen  said,  "I  can't  understand  how 
you  tolerate  such  dirty,  rude  and  vicious  little  animals 
as  those  two  children." 

The  Interpreter  smiled  understandingly  at  the  back 
of  her  very  becoming  and  very  correctly  fashioned 
hat.  "You  met  my  little  friends,  did  you?" 

"I  did,"  she  answered,  with  decided  emphasis, 
"at  the  foot  of  your  stairs,  and  I  was  forced  to  listen 
to  the  young  ruffian's  very  frank  opinion  of  me  and 
of  all  that  he  is  taught  to  believe  I  represent.  I 
wonder  you  did  not  hear.  But  I  suppose  you  can 
guess  what  he  would  say." 

"Yes,"  said  the  man  in  the  wheel  chair,  gently, 
"I  can  guess  Bobby's  opinion  of  you,  quite  as  ac 
curately  as  Bobby  guesses  your  opinion  of  him." 

At  that  she  turned  on  him  with  a  short  laugh  that 

40 


THE   INTERPRETER 


was  rather  more  bitter  than  mirthful.  "Well,  the 
little  villain  is  guessing  another  guess  just  now.  I 
sent  Tom  to  take  them  for  a  ride  in  the  car." 

"And  why  did  you  do  that?" 

She  waited  a  little  before  she  answered.  "I 
don't  know  exactly.  Perhaps  it  was  your  Helen 
of  the  old  house  that  did  it.  She  may  have  been  a 
little  ashamed  of  me  and  wanted  to  make  it  up  to 
them.  I  am  afraid  I  really  wasn't  very  kind  at 
first." 

"I  see,"  said  the  Interpreter,  gravely. 

"There  might  possibly  have  been  the  shade  of 
another  reason,"  she  continued,  after  a  moment, 
and  there  was  a  hint  of  bitterness  in  her  voice  now. 

"Yes?" 

"Yes,  it  is  conceivable,  perhaps,  that,  in  spite  of 
the  prevailing  opinions  of  such  people,  even  /  might 
have  felt  a  wee  bit  sorry  for  the  poor  kiddies — espe 
cially  for  the  girl.  She  is  such  a  tiny,  tired-looking 
mite." 

The  old  basket  maker  was  smiling  now,  as  he 
said,  "I  have  known  for  a  long  time  that  there  were 
two  Helens.  Little  Maggie,  it  seems,  has  found 
still  another." 

' '  How  interesting ! ' ' 

"Yes,  Maggie  has  discovered,  somehow,  that  you 
are  really  a  beautiful  princess,  living  on  most  ulti 
mate  terms  with  the  fairies.  She  will  think  so  more 
than  ever  now." 

The  young  woman  laughed  at  this.  "And  the 
boy — what  do  you  suppose  he  will  think  after  his 
ride  with  Tom  in  the  limousine?" 

41 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

The  Interpreter  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 
"Bobby  will  probably  reserve  his  judgment  for  a 
while,  on  the  possible  chance  of  another  ride  in  your 
car." 

"Tell  me  about  them,"  said  Helen. 

"Are  you  really  interested?" 

She  flushed  a  little  as  she  answered,  "I  am  at 
least  curious." 

"Why?" 

"Perhaps  because  of  your  interest  in  them,"  she 
retorted.  ' '  Who  are  they? ' ' 

The  Interpreter  did  not  answer  for  a  moment; 
then,  with  his  dark  eyes  fixed  on  the  heavy  cloud  of 
smoke  that  hung  above  the  Mill  and  overshadowed 
the  Flats,  he  said,  slowly,  "They  are  Sam  Whaley's 
children.  Then-  father  works — when  he  works — in 
your  father's  Mill.  I  knew  both  Sam  and  his  wife 
before  they  were  married.  She  was  a  bright  girl, 
with  fine  instincts  for  the  best  things  of  life  and  a 
capacity  for  great  happiness.  Sam  was  a  good 
worker  in  those  days,  and  their  marriage  promised 
well.  Then  he  became  interested  in  the  wrong 
sort  of  what  is  called  socialism,  and  began  to  asso 
ciate  with  a  certain  element  that  does  not  value 
homes  and  children  very  highly.  The  man  is  honest, 
and  fairly  capable,  up  to  a  certain  point;  but  there 
never  was  much  capacity  there  for  clear  thinking. 
He  is  one  of  those  who  always  follow  the  leader  who 
yells  the  loudest  and  he  mistakes  vituperation  for 
argument.  He  is  strong  on  loyalty  to  class,  but  is 
not  so  particular  as  he  might  be  when  it  comes  to 
choosing  his  class.  And  so,  for  several  years  now, 

42 


in  every  little  difference  between  the  workmen  and 
the  management,  Sam  has  been  too  ready  to  quit 
his  job  and  let  his  wife  and  children  go  hungry  for 
the  good  of  the  cause,  while  he  vociferates  loudly 
against  the  cruelty  of  all  who  refuse  to  offer  their 
families  as  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  his  particular  and 
impracticable  ideas." 

"And  his  wife — the  mother  of  his  children — the 
girl  with  fine  instincts  for  the  best  things  and  a 
capacity  for  great  happiness — what  of  her?"  de 
manded  Helen. 

The  Interpreter  pointed  toward  the  Flats.  "She 
lives  down  there,"  he  said,  sadly.  "You  have  seen 
her  children." 

The  young  woman  turned  again  to  the  porch 
railing  and  looked  down  on  the  wretched  dwellings 
of  the  Flats  below. 

"It  is  strange,"  she  said,  presently,  as  if  speaking 
to  herself,  "but  that  poor  woman  makes  me  think 
of  mother.  Mother  is  like  that,  isn't  she?  I  mean," 
she  added,  quickly,  "in  her  instincts  and  in  her 
capacity  for  happiness." 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  Interpreter,  "your  mother  is 
like  that." 

She  faced  him  once  more,  to  say  thoughtfully,  but 
with  decisive  warmth,  "It  is  a  shame  the  way  such 
children — I  mean  the  children  of  such  people  as  this 
man  Whaley — are  being  educated  in  lawlessness. 
Those  youngsters  are  nothing  less  than  juvenile 
anarchists.  They  will  grow  up  a  menace  to  our 
government,  to  society,  to  our  homes,  and  to  every 
thing  that  is  decent  and  right.  They  are  taught  to 

43 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

hate  work.  And  they  fairly  revel  in  their  hatred  of 
every  one  and  every  thing  that  is  not  of  their  own 
miserable  class." 

There  was  a  note  of  gentle  authority  in  the  Inter 
preter's  deep  voice,  and  in  his  dark  eyes  there  was  a 
look  of  patient  sorrow,  as  he  replied,  "Yes,  Helen, 
all  that  you  say  of  our  Bobbies  and  Maggies  is  true. 
But  have  you  ever  considered  whether  it  might  not 
be  equally  true  of  the  children  of  wealth?" 

"Is  the  possession  of  what  we  call  wealth  a  crime? " 
the  young  woman  asked,  bitterly.  "Is  poverty 
always  such  a  virtue?  " 

The  Interpreter  answered,  "I  mean,  child,  that 
wealth  which  comes  unearned  from  the  industries 
of  life — that  wealth  for  which  no  service  is  rendered — 
for  which  no  equivalent  in  human  strength,  mental 
or  physical,  is  returned.  Are  not  the  children  of  such 
conditions  being  educated  in  lawlessness  when  the 
influence  of  their  money  so  often  permits  them  to 
break  our  laws  with  impunity?  Are  they  not  a 
menace  to  our  government  when  they  coerce  and 
bribe  our  public  servants  to  enact  laws  and  enforce 
measures  that  are  for  the  advantage  of  a  few  favored 
ones  and  against  the  welfare  of  our  people  as  a 
whole?  Are  they  not  a  menace  to  society  when 
they  would  limit  the  meaning  of  the  very  word  to 
their  own  select  circles  and  cliques?  Are  they  not 
a  menace  to  our  homes  by  the  standards  of  morals 
that  too  often  govern  their  daily  living?  For  that 
hatred  of  class  taught  the  Bobbies  and  Maggies  of 
the  Flats,  Helen,  these  other  children  are  taught  an 
intolerance  and  contempt  for  everything  that  is  not 

44 


THE  INTERPRETER 


of  their  class — an  intolerance  and  contempt  that 
breed  class  hatred  as  surely  as  blow  flies  breed 
maggots." 

For  some  time  the  silence  was  broken  only  by  the 
dull,  droning  voice  of  the  Mill.  They  listened  as 
they  would  have  listened  to  the  first  low  moaning 
of  the  wind  that  might  rise  later  into  a  destructive 
storm. 

The  Interpreter  spoke  again.  "  Helen,  this  nation 
cannot  tolerate  one  standard  of  citizenship  for  one 
class  and  a  totally  different  standard  for  another. 
Whatever  is  right  for  the  children  of  the  hill,  yonder, 
is  right  for  the  children  of  the  Flats,  down  there." 

Helen  asked,  abruptly,  "Is  there  any  truth  in  all 
this  talk  about  coming  trouble  with  the  labor 
unions?" 

The  man  in  the  wheel  chair  did  not  answer  imme 
diately.  Then  he  replied,  gravely,  with  another 
question,  "And  who  is  it  that  says  there  is  going 
to  be  trouble  again,  Helen?" 

"John  says  everybody  is  expecting  it.  And  Mr. 
Mclver  is  so  sure  that  he  is  already  preparing  for 
it  at  his  factory.  He  says  it  will  be  the  worst 
industrial  war  that  Millsburgh  has  ever  experienced — 
that  it  must  be  a  fight  to  the  finish  this  time — that 
nothing  but  starvation  will  bring  the  working  classes 
to  their  senses." 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  Interpreter,  thoughtfully,  "Mc 
lver  would  say  just  that.  And  many  of  our  labor 
agitators  would  declare,  in  exactly  the  same  spirit, 
that  nothing  but  the  final  and  absolute  downfall  of 
the  employer  class  can  ever  end  the  struggle.  I 

45 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

wonder  what  little  Bobby  and  Maggie  Whaley  and 
their  mother  would  say  if  they  could  have  their 
way  about  it,  Helen?" 

Helen  Ward's  face  flushed  as  she  said  in  a  low, 
deliberate  voice,  "  Father  agrees  with  Mr.  Mclver — 
you  know  how  bitter  he  is  against  the  unions?  " 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"But  John  says  that  Mr.  Mclver,  with  his  talk  of 
force  and  of  starving  helpless  women  and  children,  is 
as  bad  as  this  man  Jake  Vodell  who  has  come  to 
Millsburgh  to  organize  a  strike.  It  is  really  brother's 
attitude  toward  the  workmen  and  their  unions  and 
his  disagreement  with  Mr.  Mclver's  views  that  make 
father  as — as  he  is." 

The  Interpreter's  voice  was  gentle  as  he  asked, 
"Your  father  is  not  worse,  is  he,  Helen?  I  have 
heard  nothing." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  returned,  quickly.     "That  is 

She  hesitated,  then  continued,  with  careful  exact 
ness,  "For  a  time  he  even  seemed  much  better. 
When  I  went  away  he  was  really  almost  like  his  old 
self.  But  this  labor  situation  and  John's  not  seeing 
things  exactly  as  he  does  worries  him.  The  doctors 
all  agree,  you  know,  that  father  must  give  up  every 
thing  in  the  nature  of  business  and  have  absolute 
mental  rest;  but  he  insists  that  in  the  face  of  this 
expected  trouble  with  the  workmen  he  dares  not 
trust  the  management  of  the  Mill  wholly  to  John, 
because  of  what  he  calls  brother's  wild  and  imprac 
ticable  ideas.  Everybody  knows  how  father  has 
given  his  life  to  building  up  the  Mill.  And  now, 

he — he It  is  terrible  the  way  he  is  about  things. 

46 


THE   INTERPRETER 


Poor  mother  is  almost  beside  herself."  The  young 
woman's  eyes  filled  and  her  lips  trembled. 

The  man  in  the  wheel  chair  turned  to  the  un 
finished  basket  on  the  table  beside  him  and  handled 
his  work  aimlessly,  as  if  in  sorrow  that  he  had  no 
word  of  comfort  for  her. 

When  Adam  Ward's  daughter  spoke  again  there 
was  a  curious  note  of  defiance  in  her  voice,  but  her 
eyes,  when  the  Interpreter  turned  to  look  at  her,  were 
fixed  upon  her  old  friend  with  an  expression  of  pain 
ful  anxiety  and  fear.  "Of  course  his  condition  is  all 
( due  to  his  years  of  hard  work  and  to  the  mental  and 
nervous  strain  of  his  business.  It — it  couldn't  be 
anything  else,  could  it?" 

The  Interpreter,  who  seemed  to  be  watching  the 
intricate  and  constantly  changing  forms  that  the 
columns  of  smoke  from  the  tall  stacks  were  shaping, 
apparently  did  not  hear. 

"  Don't — don't  you  think  it  is  all  because  of  his 
worry  over  the  Mill?" 

"Yes,  Helen,"  the  Interpreter  answered,  at  last, 
"I  am  sure  your  father's  trouble  all  comes  from  the 
Mill." 

For  a  while  she  did  not  speak,  but  sat  looking  wist 
fully  toward  the  clump  of  trees  that  shaded  her 
birthplace  and  the  white  cottage  where  Peter  Martin 
lived  with  Charlie  and  Mary. 

Then  she  said,  musingly,  "How  happy  we  all  were 
in  the  old  house,  when  father  worked  in  the  Mill 
with  you  and  Uncle  Pete,  and  you  used  to  come 
for  Sunday  dinner  with  us.  Do  you  know,  some 
times" — she  hesitated  as  if  making  a  confession  of 

47 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

which  she  was  a  little  ashamed — "  sometimes — 
that  is,  since  brother  came  home  from  France, 
I — I  almost  hate  it.  I  think  I  feel  just  as  mother 
does,  only  neither  of  us  dares  admit  it — scarcely  even 
to  ourselves." 

"You  almost  hate  what,  Helen?" 

"Oh,  everything — the  way  we  live,  the  people  we 
know,  the  stupid  things  I  am  expected  to  do.  It  all 
seems  so  useless — so  futile — so — so — such  a  waste  of 
time." 

The  Interpreter  was  studying  her  with  kindly 
interest. 

"I  never  felt  this  way  before  brother  went  away. 
And  during  the  war  everybody  was  so  much 
excited  and  interested,  helping  in  every  way  he  or 
she  could.  But  now — now  that  it  is  over  and  John 
is  safely  home  again,  I  can't  seem  to  get  back  into 
the  old  ways  at  all.  Life  seems  to  have  flattened 
out  into  a  dull,  monotonous  round  of  nothing  that 
really  matters." 

The  Interpreter  spoke,  thoughtfully,  "Many  peo 
ple,  I  find,  feel  that  way  these  days,  Helen." 

"As  for  brother,"  she  continued,  "he  is  so  changed 
that  I  simply  can't  understand  him  at  all.  He  is  like 
a  different  man — just  grinds  away  in  that  dirty  old 
Mill  day  after  day,  as  if  he  were  nothing  more  than  a 
common  laborer  who  had  to  work  or  starve.  In 
fact,"  she  finished  with  an  air  of  triumph,  "that  is 
exactly  what  he  says  he  is — simply  a  laborer  like — 
like  Charlie  Martin  and  the  rest  of  them." 

The  Interpreter  smiled. 

"It  was  all  very  well  for  John  and  Charlie  Martin 

48 


THE   INTERPRETER 


to  be  buddies,  as  they  call  it,  during  the  war,"  she 
went  on.  "It  was  different  over  there  in  France. 
But  now  that  it  is  all  over  and  they  are  home  again, 
and  Captain  Martin  has  gone  back  to  his  old  work 
in  the  Mill  where  John  has  practically  become  the 
manager,  there  is  no  sense  in  brother's  keeping  up 
the  intimacy.  Really  I  don't  wonder  that  father  is 
worried  almost  to  death  over  it  all.  I  suppose  the 
next  thing  John  will  be  chumming  with  this  Jake 
Vodell  himself." 

"I  don't  suppose  you  see  much  of  your  old  friends 
the  Martins  these  days,  do  you,  Helen?"  said  the  old 
basket  maker,  reflectively. 

She  retorted  quickly  with  an  air,  "Certainly  not." 

"But  I  remember,  in  the  old-house  days,  before 
you  went  away  to  school,  you  and  Charlie*  Martin 
were — 

She  interrupted  him  with  "I  was  a  silly  child. 
I  suppose  every  girl  at  about  that  age  has  to  have  her 
foolish  little  romance." 

And  the  Interpreter  saw  that  her  cheeks  were 
crimson. 

"A  young  girl's  first  love  is  not  in  the  least  silly  or 
foolish,  my  dear,"  he  said. 

She  made  an  effort  to  speak  lightly.  "Well, 
fortunately,  mine  did  not  last  long." 

"I  know,"  he  returned,  "but  I  thought  perhaps 
because  of  the  friendship  between  John  and  the 
Captain " 

"I  could  scarcely  see  much  of  one  of  the  common 
workmen  in  my  father's  mill,  could  I?"  she  asked, 
warmly.  "I  must  admit,  though,"  she  added, 

49 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

with  an  odd  note  in  her  voice,  "that  I  admire  his 
good  sense  in  never  accepting  John's  invitations  to 
the  house." 

And  then,  suddenly,  to  the  consternation  of  her 
companion,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

The  Interpreter  looked  away  toward  the  beau 
tiful  country  beyond  the  squalid  Flats,  the  busy 
city,  the  smoke-clouded  Mill. 

There  was  a  sound  of  some  one  knocking  at  the 
front  door  of  the  hut.  Through  the  living  room 
Helen  saw  her  chauffeur. 

"Yes,  Tom,"  she  called,  "I  am  coming." 

To  the  Interpreter  she  said,  hurriedly,  "I  have 
really  stayed  longer  than  I  should.  I  promised 
mother  that  I  would  be  home  early.  She  is  so  wor 
ried  about  father,  I  do  not  like  to  leave  her,  but  I 
felt  that  I  must  see  you.  I — I  haven't  said  at  all  the 

things  I — wanted  to  say.  Father "  She  looked 

at  the  man  in  the  wheel  chair  appealingly,  as  she 
hesitated  again  with  the  manner  of  one  who  feels 
compelled  to  speak,  yet  fears  to  betray  a  secret. 
"You  feel  sure,  don't  you,  that  father's  condition  is 
nothing  more  than  the  natural  result  of  his  nervous 
breakdown  and  his  worry  over  business?" 

The  Interpreter  thought  how  like  the  look  in  her 
eyes  was  to  the  look  in  the  eyes  of  timid  little 
Maggie.  And  again  he  waited,  before  answering, 
"Yes,  Helen,  I  am  sure  that  your  father's  trouble  is 
all  caused  by  the  Mill.  Is  there  anything  that  I  can 
do,  child?" 

"There  is  nothing  that  any  one  can  do,  I  fear," 
she  returned,  with  a  little  gesture  of  hopelessness. 

50 


THE   INTERPRETER 


Then,  avoiding  the  grave,  kindly  eyes  of  the  old 
basket  maker,  she  forced  herself  to  say,  in  a  tone  that 
was  little  more  than  a  whisper,  "I  sometimes  think — 
at  times  I  am  almost  compelled  to  believe  that  there 
is  something  more — something  that  we — that  no 
one  knows  about."  With  sudden  desperate  earnest 
ness  she  went  on  with  nervous  haste  as  if  she  feared 
her  momentary  courage  would  fail.  "I  can't 
explain — but  it  is  as  if  he  were  hiding  something  and 
dreaded  every  moment  that  it  would  be  discovered. 
He  is  so — so  afraid.  Can  it  be  possible  that  there  is 
something  that  we  do  not  know — some  hidden 
thing?"  And  then,  before  the  Interpreter  could 
speak,  she  exclaimed,  with  a  forced  laugh  of  embar 
rassment,  "How  silly  of  me  to  talk  like  this — you 
will  think  that  I  am  going  insane." 

When  he  was  alone,  the  Interpreter  turned  again 
to  his  basket  making.  "Yes,  Billy,"  he  said  aloud 
as  his  deaf  and  dumb  companion  appeared  in  the 
doorway  a  few  minutes  later,  "yes,  Billy,  she  will 
find  her  jewel  of  happiness.  But  it  will  not  be  easy, 
Billy — it  will  not  be  easy." 

To  which,  of  course,  Billy  made  no  reply.  And 
that — the  Interpreter  always  maintained — was  one 
of  the  traits  that  made  his  companion  such  a  delight 
ful  conversationalist.  He  invariably  found  your 
pet  arguments  and  theories  unanswerable,  and  ac 
cepted  your  every  assertion  without  question. 

Helen  Ward  could  not  feel  that  her  father's  con 
dition — much  as  it  alarmed  and  distressed  her — 

51 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

was,  in  itself,  the  reason  of  her  own  unrest  and  dis 
content.  She  felt,  rather,  in  a  vague,  instinctive  way, 
that  the  source  of  her  parent's  trouble  was  some 
how  identical  with  the  cause  of  her  own  unhappiness. 
But  what  was  it  that  caused  her  father's  affliction 
and  her  own  dissatisfied  and  restless  mental  state? 
The  young  woman  questioned  herself  in  vain. 

Pausing  at  one  of  the  turns  in  the  stairway,  she 
stood  for  some  time  looking  at  the  life  that  lay  before 
her,  as  though  wondering  if  the  answer  to  her  ques 
tions  might  not  be  found  somewhere  in  that  familiar 
scene. 

But  the  Mill,  with  its  smoking  stacks  and  the 
steady  song  of  its  industry,  had  no  meaning  for  her. 
The  dingy,  dust-veiled  Flats  spoke  a  language  that 
she  was  not  schooled  to  understand.  The  farms  of 
the  valley  beyond  the  river,  so  beautiful  in  their 
productiveness,  were  as  meaningless  to  her  as  the  life 
on  some  unknown  planet.  To  her  the  busy  city 
with  its  varied  interests  was  without  significance. 
The  many  homes  on  the  hillside  held,  for  her,  noth 
ing.  And  yet  as  she  looked  she  was  possessed  of  a 
curious  feeling  that  everything  in  that  world  before 
her  eyes  was  occupied  with  some  definite  purpose — 
was  living  to  some  fixed  end — was  a  part  of  life — 
belonged  to  life.  Below  her,  on  the  road  at  the  foot 
of  the  cliffs,  an  old  negro  with  an  ancient  skeleton 
of  a  horse  and  a  shaky  wreck  of  a  wagon  was  making 
slow  progress  toward  the  Flats.  To  Helen,  even 
this  poor  creature  was  going  somewhere — to  some 
definite  place — on  some  definite  mission.  She  felt 
strangely  alone. 

52 


THE   INTERPRETER 


In  those  years  of  the  war  Adam  Ward's  daughter, 
like  many  thousands  of  her  class,  had  been  inevitably 
forced  into  a  closer  touch  with  life  than  she  had  ever 
known  before.  She  had  felt,  as  never  before,  the 
great  oneness  of  humanity.  She  had  sensed  a  little 
the  thrilling  power  of  a  great  human  purpose.  Now 
it  was  as  though  life  ignored  her,  passed  her  by. 
She  felt  left  out,  overlooked,  forgotten. 

Slowly  she  went  on  down  the  zigzag  stairway  to  her 
waiting  automobile. 

As  she  entered  her  car,  the  chauffeur  looked  at  her 
curiously.  When  she  gave  him  no  instructions,  he 
asked,  quietly,  "Home,  Miss?" 

She  started.     "Yes,  Tom." 

The  man  was  in  his  place  at  the  wheel  when  she 
added,  "Did  those  children  enjoy  their  ride,  Tom?" 

"That  they  did,  Miss — it  was  the  treat  of  their 
lives." 

Little  Maggie's  princess  lady  smiled  wistfully — 
almost  as  Maggie  herself  might  have  smiled. 

As  the  car  was  moving  slowly  away  from  the  foot 
of  the  old  stairway,  she  spoke  again.  ' '  Tom ! " 

"Yes,  Miss." 

"You  may  drive  around  by  the  old  house,  please." 


CHAPTER   IV 

PETER  MARTIN  AT  HOME 

PETER  MARTIN,  with  his  children,  Charlie 
and  Mary,  lived  in  the  oldest  part  of  Mills- 
burgh,  where  the  quiet  streets  are  arched  with 
great  trees  and  the  modest  houses,  if  they  seem  to 
lack  hi  modern  smartness,  more  than  make  good  the 
loss  by  their  ah*  of  homelike  comfort.  The  Martin 
cottage  was  built  in  the  days  before  the  success  of 
Adam  Ward  and  his  new  process  had  brought  to 
Millsburgh  the  two  extremes  of  the  Flats  and  the 
hillside  estates.  The  little  home  was  equally  re 
moved  from  the  wretched  dwellings  of  Sam  Whaley 
and  his  neighbors,  on  the  one  hand,  and  from  the 
imposing  residences  of  Adam  Ward  and  his  circle, 
on  the  other. 

The  house — painted  white,  with  old-fashioned 
green  shutters — is  only  a  story  and  a  half,  with  a 
low  wing  on  the  east,  and  a  bit  of  porch  in  front, 
with  wooden  seats  on  either  side  the  door.  The 
porch  step  is  a  large  uncut  stone  that  nature  shaped 
to  the  purpose,  and  the  walk  that  connects  the  en 
trance  with  the  front  gate  is  of  the  same  untooled 
flat  rock.  On  the  right  of  the  walk,  as  one  enters,  a 
space  of  green  lawn,  a  great  tree,  and  rustic  chairs 
invite  one  to  rest  in  the  shade;  while  on  the  left,  the 
yard  is  filled  with  old-fashioned  flowers,  and  a  row 
of  flowering  shrubs  and  bushes  extends  the  full 

54 


PETER  MARTIN  AT  HOME 

width  of  the  lot  along  the  picket  fence  which  par 
allels  the  board  walk  of  the  tree-bordered  street. 
The  fence,  like  the  house,  is  painted  white. 

The  other  homes  in  the  neighborhood  are  of  the 
same  modest,  well  kept  type. 

The  only  thing  that  marred  the  quiet  domestic 
beauty  of  the  scene  at  the  time  of  this  story  was  the 
place  where  Adam  Ward  had  lived  with  his  little 
family  before  material  prosperity  removed  them  to 
their  estate  on  the  hill.  Joining  the  Martin  home  on 
the  east,  the  old  house,  unpainted,  with  broken 
shutters,  shattered  windows,  and  sagging  porch, 
in  its  setting  of  neglected,  weed-grown  yard  and 
tumble-down  fences,  was  pathetic  in  its  contrast. 

Since  the  death  of  her  mother,  Mary  Martin  had 
been  the  housekeeper  for  her  father  and  her  brother. 
She  was  a  wholesome,  clear-visioned  girl,  with  an 
attractive  face  that  glowed  with  the  good  color  of 
health  and  happiness.  And  if  at  tunes,  when  the 
Ward  automobile  passed,  there  was  a  shadow  of 
wistfulness  in  Mary's  eyes,  it  did  not  mar  for  long 
the  expression  of  her  habitually  contented  and  cheer 
ful  spirit.  She  worked  at  her  household  tasks  with  a 
song,  entered  into  the  pleasures  of  her  friends  and 
neighbors  with  hearty  delight,  and  was  known,  as 
well,  to  many  poverty-stricken  homes  in  the  Flats 
in  tunes  of  need. 

More  than  one  young  workman  in  the  Mill  had 
wanted  Pete  Martin's  girl  to  help  him  realize  his 
dreams  of  home  building.  But  Mary  had  always 
answered  "No." 

Mary's  brother  Charlie  was  a  strong-shouldered, 

55 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

athletic  workman,  with  a  fine,  clean  countenance 
and  the  bearing  of  his  military  experience. 

At  supper,  that  evening,  the  young  woman  re 
marked  casually,  "Helen  Ward  went  by  this  after 
noon.  I  was  working  in  the  roses.  I  thought  for 
a  moment  she  was  going  to  stop — at  the  old  house,  I 
mean." 

Captain  Charlie's  level  gaze  met  his  sister's  look. 
"Did  she  see  you?" 

"She  did  and  she  didn't,"  replied  Mary. 

"Never  mind,  dear,"  returned  the  soldier  work 
man,  "it'll  be  all  right." 

Peter  Martin — a  gray-haired  veteran  with  rather 
a  stolid  English  face — looked  up  at  his  children  ques- 
tioningly.  Presently  he  said,  "It's  a  wonder  Adam 
wouldn't  fix  up  the  old  place  a  bit — for  pride's  sake 
if  for  nothing  else.  It's  a  disgrace  to  the  neigh 
borhood." 

"I  guess  that's  the  reason  he  lets  it  go,"  said 
Captain  Charlie,  pushing  his  chair  back  from  the 
table. 

"What's  the  reason?"  asked  Peter. 

"For  his  pride's  sake.  As  it  stands  now,  the  old 
house  advertises  Adam's  success.  When  people 
see  it  in  ruins  like  that  they  always  speak  of  the  big 
new  house  on  the  hill.  If  the  old  house  was  fixed  up 
and  occupied  it  wouldn't  cause  any  comment  on 
Adam's  prosperity,  you  see.  John  told  me  once  that 
he  had  begged  his  father  to  let  him  do  something 
with  it,  but  Adam  ordered  him  never  to  set  foot  on 
the  place." 

"Well,"  said  Mary,  "I  suppose  he  can  afford  to 

56 


PETER  MARTIN  AT  HOME 

keep  the  old  house  as  a  sort  of  monument  if  he  wants 
to." 

Peter  Martin  commented,  in  his  slow  way,  "If 
Charlie  is  right  about  his  reason  for  leaving  it  as  it  is, 
I  am  not  so  sure,  daughter,  that  even  Adam  Ward 
can  afford  to  do  such  a  thing." 

Captain  Charlie's  eyes  twinkled  as  he  addressed 
his  sister.  "Father  evidently  believes  with  the 
Interpreter  that  houses  have  souls  or  spirits  or  some 
thing — like  human  beings." 

"Of  course,"  she  returned,  "if  the  Interpreter 
believes  it  father  is  bound  to." 

The  old  workman  smiled.  "You  children  will 
believe  it,  too,  some  day;  at  least  I  hope  so." 

"I  wonder  if  Helen  ever  goes  to  see  the  Inter 
preter,"  said  Mary. 

Captain  Charlie  returned,  quickly,  "I  know  she 
does." 

"How  do  you  know?  Did  you  ever  meet  her 
there?" 

The  Captain  answered  grimly,  "I  hid  out  in  the 
garden  once  with  Billy  Rand  to  keep  from  meeting 
her." 

Flushed  with  the  unparalleled  adventures  of  the 
day,  Bobby  Whaley  asked  his  father,  "Dad,  ain't 
the  old  Interpreter  one  of  us? — ain't  he?" 

"Sure  he  is." 

"Well,  then,  what  for  did  old  Adam  Ward's 
daughter  go  to  see  him  just  like  Mag  an'  me  did?" 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  about  that,"  growled  Sam 
Whaley,  "but  I  can  tell  you  kids  one  thing.  You're 

57 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

a^goin'  to  stay  out  of  that  there  automobile  of  hers. 
You  let  me  catch  you  takin'  up  with  such  as  Adam 
Ward's  daughter  and  I'll  teach  you  somethin'  you 
won't  fergit." 

The  cigar-store  philosopher  remarked  casually  to 
the  chief  of  police,  "This  here  savior  of  the  people, 
Jake  Vodell,  that's  recently  descended  upon  us,  is 
gatherin'  to  himself  a  choice  bunch  of  disciples — I'll 
tell  the  world." 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  demanded  the 
officer  of  the  law. 

The  philosopher  grinned.  "Oh,  they  most  of 
them  smoke  or  chew,  the  same  as  your  cops.  Vodell 
himself  smokes  your  brand.  Have  one  on  me, 
chief." 


CHAPTER    V 

ADAM   WARD'S  ESTATE 

IN  spite  of  that  smile  of  mingled  admiration,  con 
tempt  and  envy,  with  which  the  people  always 
accompanied  any  mention  of  Adam  Ward, 
Millsburgh  took  no  little  pride  in  the  dominant 
Mill  owner's  achievements.  In  particular,  was  the 
Ward  home,  most  pretentious  of  all  the  imposing 
estates  on  the  hillside,  an  object  of  never-failing 
interest  and  conversational  speculation.  "Adam 
Ward's  castle,"  the  people  called  it,  smiling.  And 
no  visiting  stranger  of  any  importance  whatever 
could  escape  being  driven  past  that  glaring  archi 
tectural  monstrosity  which  stood  so  boldly  on  its 
most  conspicuous  hillside  elevation  and  proclaimed 
so  defiantly  to  all  the  world  its  owner's  material 
prosperity. 

But  the  sight-seers  always  viewed  the  "castle" 
and  the  "palatial  grounds"  (the  Millsburgh  Clarion, 
in  a  special  Sunday  article  for  which  Adam  paid,  so 
described  the  place)  through  a  strong,  ornamental 
iron  fence,  with  a  more  than  ornamental  gate  guarded 
by  massive  stone  columns.  Only  when  the  visiting 
strangers  were  of  sufficient  importance  hi  the  owner's 
eyes  were  they  permitted  to  pass  the  conspicuous 
PRIVATE  PROPERTY,  No  ADMITTANCE  sign  at  the 
entrance.  As  the  cigar-stand  philosopher  explained, 
Adam  Ward  did  not  propose  to  give  anything  away. 

59 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

The  chief  value  of  his  possessions,  in  Adam's 
thoughts,  lay  in  the  fact  that  they  were  his.  He 
always  said,  "My  house — my  grounds — my  flowers — 
my  trees — my  fountain — my  fence."  He  even  ex 
tended  his  ownership  and  spoke  of  the  very  birds 
who  dared  to  ignore  the  PRIVATE  PROPERTY,  No 
ADMITTANCE  sign  as  my  birds.  So  marked,  indeed, 
was  this  characteristic  habit  of  his  speech,  that  no 
one  in  Millsburgh  would  have  been  surprised  to  hear 
him  say,  "My  sun — my  moonlight."  And  never  did 
he  so  forget  himself  as  to  include  his  wife  and  children 
in  such  an  expression  as  "our  home."  Why,  indeed, 
should  he?  His  wife  and  his  children  were  as  much 
his  as  any  of  the  other  items  on  the  long  list  of  the 
personal  possessions  which  he  had  so  industriously 
acquired. 

In  perfect  harmony  with  the  principles  that  ordered 
his  life,  the  owner  of  the  castle  made  great  show  of 
hospitality  at  tunes.  But  the  recipients  of  his 
effusive  welcome  were  in  variably  those  from  whom, 
or  through  whom,  he  had  reason  to  think  he  might 
derive  a  definite  material  gain  in  return  for  his  gra- 
ciousness.  The  chief  entertainment  offered  these 
occasional  utilitarian  guests  was  a  verbal  catalogue 
of  the  estate,  with  an  itemized  statement  of  the  cost 
of  everything  mentioned.  If  the  architecture  of  the 
house  was  noticed,  Adam  proudly  disclaimed  any 
knowledge  of  architecture,  but  named  the  archi 
tect's  fee,  and  gave  the  building  cost  in  detail,  from 
the  heating  system  to  the  window  screens.  If  one 
chanced  to  betray  an  interest  in  a  flower  or  shrub  or 
tree,  he  boasted  that  he  could  not  name  a  plant  on 

60 


ADAM  WARD'S  ESTATE 


the  place,  and  told  how  many  thousands  he  had  paid 
the  landscape  architect,  and  what  it  cost  him  each 
year  to  maintain  the  lawns  and  gardens.  If  the 
visitor  admired  the  fountain  or  the  statuary  he  de 
clared — quite  unnecessarily — that  he  knew  nothing 
of  art,  but  had  paid  the  various  artists  represented 
various  definite  dollars  and  cents.  And  never  was 
there  a  guest  of  that  house  that  poor  Adam  did  not 
seek  to  discredit  to  his  family  and  to  other  guests, 
lest  by  any  chance  any  one  should  fail  to  recognize 
the  host's  superiority. 

In  his  youth  the  Mill  owner  had  received  from  his 
parents  certain  exaggerated  religious  convictions  as 
to  the  desirability  of  gaining  heaven  and  escaping 
hell  when  one's  years  of  material  gains  and  losses 
should  be  forever  past.  Therefore,  his  spiritual  life, 
also,  was  wholly  a  matter  of  personal  bargain  and 
profit.  The  church  was  an  insurance  corporation, 
of  a  sort,  to  which  he  paid  his  dues,  as  he  paid  the 
premiums  on  his  policies  in  other  less  pretentious 
companies.  As  a  matter  of  additional  security — 
which  cost  nothing  in  the  way  of  additional  premiums 
— he  never  failed  to  say  grace  at  the  table. 

This  matter  of  grace,  Adam  found,  was  also  a 
character  asset  of  no  little  value  when  there  were 
guests  whom  he,  for  good  material  reasons,  wished 
to  impress  with  the  fine  combination  of  business 
ability  and  sterling  Christian  virtue  that  so  dis 
tinguished  his  simple  and  sincere  nature.  Profess 
yourself  the  disinterested  friend  of  a  man — make 
him  believe  that  you  value  his  friendship  for  its  own 
sake  and,  on  that  ground,  invite  him  to  your  home  as 

61 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

your  honored  guest.  And  then,  when  he  sits  at  your 
table,  ask  God  to  bless  the  food,  the  home,  and  the 
guest,  and  you  have  unquestionably  maneuvered 
your  friend  into  a  position  where  he  will  contribute 
liberally  to  your  business  triumphs — if  your  con 
tracts  are  cleverly  drawn  and  you  strike  for  the 
necessary  signature  while  the  glow  of  your  generous 
hospitality  is  still  warm. 

And  thus,  with  his  patented  process  and  his  clev 
erly  drawn  contracts,  this  man  had  reaped  from  hos 
pitality,  religion  and  friendship  the  abundant  gains 
that  made  him  the  object  of  his  neighbors'  admira 
tion,  contempt  and  envy. 

But  the  end  of  Adam  Ward's  material  harvest  day 
was  come.  As  Helen  had  told  the  Interpreter,  the 
doctors  were  agreed  that  her  father  must  give  up 
everything  in  the  nature  of  business  and  have  abso 
lute  mental  rest.  The  Mill  owner  must  retire. 

Retire!     Retire  to  what? 

The  world  of  literature — of  history  and  romance, 
of  poetry  and  the  lives  of  men — the  world  of  art, 
with  its  magic  of  color  and  form — the  world  of  music, 
with  its  power  to  rest  the  weary  souls  of  men — the 
world  of  nature,  that  with  its  myriad  interests  lay 
about  him  on  every  side — the  world  of  true  friend 
ships,  with  their  inspiring  sympathies  and  unselfish 
love — in  these  worlds  there  is  no  place  for  Adam 
Wards. 

Retire !     Retire  to  what? 

One  afternoon,  a  few  days  after  her  visit  to  the 
Interpreter,  Helen  sat  with  a  book  in  a  little  vine- 

62 


ADAM  WARD'S  ESTATE 


covered  arbor,  in  a  secluded  part  of  the  grounds,  some 
distance  from  the  house.  She  had  been  in  the  quiet 
retreat  an  hour,  perhaps,  when  her  attention  was 
attracted  by  the  sound  of  some  one  approaching. 
Through  a  tiny  opening  in  the  lattice  and  vine 
wall  she  saw  her  father. 

Adam  Ward  apparently  was  on  his  way  to  the 
very  spot  his  daughter  had  chosen,  and  the  young 
woman  smiled  to  herself  as  she  pictured  his  find 
ing  her  there.  But  a  moment  before  the  seemingly 
inevitable  discovery,  the  man  turned  aside  to 
a  rustic  seat  in  the  shade  of  a  great  tree  not  far 
away. 

Helen  was  about  to  reveal  her  presence  by  calling 
to  him  when  something  in  her  father's  manner 
caused  her  to  hesitate.  Through  the  leafy  screen 
of  the  arbor  wall  she  saw  him  stop  beside  the  bench 
and  look  carefully  about  on  every  side,  as  if  to  assure 
himself  that  he  was  alone.  The  young  woman 
flushed  guiltily,  but,  as  if  against  her  will,  she  re 
mained  silent.  As  she  watched  her  father's  face,  a 
feeling  of  pity,  fear  and  wonder  held  her  breathless. 

Helen  had  often  seen  her  father  suffering  under  an 
attack  of  nervous  excitement.  She  had  witnessed 
his  spells  of  ungoverned  rage  that  left  him  white  and 
trembling  with  exhaustion.  She  had  known  his 
fears  that  he  tried  so  hard  to  hide.  She  knew  of  his 
sleepless  nights,  of  his  dreams  of  horror,  of  his  hours 
of  lonely  brooding.  But  never  had  she  seen  her 
father  like  this.  It  was  as  if  Adam  Ward,  believing 
himself  unobserved,  let  fall  the  mask  that  hid  his 
secret  self  from  even  those  who  loved  him  most. 

63 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

Sinking  down  upon  the  bench,  he  groaned  aloud, 
while  his  daughter,  looking  upon  that  huddled  figure 
of  abject  misery  and  despair,  knew  that  she  was  wit 
nessing  a  mental  anguish  that  could  come  only  from 
some  source  deep  hidden  beneath  the  surface  of  her 
father's  life.  She  could  not  move.  As  one  under 
some  strange  spell,  she  was  helpless. 

The  doctors  had  said — diplomatically — that  Adam 
Ward's  ill  health  was  a  nervous  trouble,  resulting 
from  his  lifelong  devotion  to  his  work,  with  no  play 
spell  or  rest,  and  no  relief  through  interest  in  other 
things.  But  Adam  Ward  knew  the  real  reason  for 
the  medical  men's  insistent  advice  that  he  retire 
from  the  stress  of  the  Mill  to  the  quiet  of  his  estate. 
He  knew  it  from  his  wife's  anxious  care  and  untiring 
watchfulness.  He  knew  it  from  the  manner  of  his 
business  associates  when  they  asked  how  he  felt. 
He  knew  when,  at  some  trivial  incident  or  word,  he 
would  be  caught,  helpless,  in  the  grip  of  an  ungov 
ernable  rage  that  would  leave  him  exhausted  for 
many  weary,  brooding  hours.  He  felt  it  in  the 
haunting,  unconquerable  fears  that  beset  him — by 
the  feeling  of  some  dread  presence  watching  him — 
by  the  convictions  that  unknown  enemies  were 
seeking  his  life — by  his  terrifying  dreams  of  the  hell 
of  his  inherited  religion. 

And  the  real  reason  for  his  condition  Adam  Ward 
knew.  It  was  not  the  business  to  which  he  had 
driven  himself  so  relentlessly.  It  was  not  that  he 
had  no  other  interests  to  take  his  mind  from  the  Mill. 
It  was  a  thing  that  he  had  fought,  in  secret,  almost 
every  hour  of  every  year  of  his  accumulating  suc- 

64 


ADAM  WARD'S  ESTATE 


cesses.  It  was  a  thing  which  his  neighbors  and 
associates  and  family  felt  in  his  presence  but  could 
not  name — a  thing  which  made  him  turn  his  eyes 
away  from  a  frank,  straightforward  look  and  forbade 
him  to  look  his  fellows  in  the  face  save  by  an  exer 
tion  of  his  will. 

Through  the  vines,  Helen  saw  her  father  stoop  to 
pick  from  the  ground  a  few  twigs  that  had  escaped 
the  eyes  of  the  caretakers.  Deliberately  he  broke  the 
twigs  into  tiny  bits,  and  threw  the  pieces  one  by  one 
aside.  His  gray  face,  drawn  and  haggard,  twitched 
and  worked  with  the  nervous  stress  of  his  thoughts. 
From  under  his  heavy  brows  he  glanced  with  the 
quick,  furtive  look  of  a  hunted  thing,  as  though 
fearing  some  enemy  that  might  be  hidden  in  the 
near-by  shrubbery.  The  young  woman,  shrinking 
from  the  look  in  his  eyes,  and  not  daring  to  make  her 
presence  known,  remembered,  suddenly,  how  the 
Interpreter  had  been  reluctant  to  discuss  her  father's 
illness. 

Casting  aside  the  last  tiny  bit  of  the  twig  which 
he  had  broken  so  aimlessly,  he  found  another  and 
continued  his  senseless  occupation. 

With  pity  and  love  in  her  heart,  Helen  wanted  to 
go  to  him — to  help  him,  but  she  could  not — some 
invisible  presence  seemed  to  forbid. 

Suddenly  Adam  raised  his  head.  A  moment  he 
listened,  then  cautiously  he  rose  to  his  feet — lis 
tening,  listening.  It  was  no  trick  of  his  fancy  this 
time.  He  could  hear  voices  on  the  other  side  of  a 
dense  growth  of  shrubbery  near  the  fence.  Two 
people  were  talking.  He  could  not  distinguish  the 

65 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

words  but  he  could  hear  distinctly  the  low  murmur 
of  their  voices. 

Helen,  too,  heard  the  voices  and  looked  in  that 
direction.  From  her  position  in  the  arbor  she  could 
see  the  speakers.  With  the  shadow  of  a  quick  smile, 
she  turned  her  eyes  again  toward  her  father.  He  was 
looking  about  cautiously,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that 
he  was  alone.  The  shadow  of  a  smile  vanished  from 
Helen's  face  as  she  watched  in  wondering  fear. 

Stooping  low,  Adam  Ward  crept  swiftly  to  a  clump 
of  bushes  near  the  spot  from  which  the  sound  of  the 
voices  came.  Crouching  behind  the  shrubbery,  he 
silently  parted  the  branches  and  peered  through. 
Bobby  and  Maggie  Whaley  stood  on  the  outer  side 
of  the  fence  with  their  little  faces  thrust  between  the 
iron  pickets,  looking  in. 

Still  in  the  glow  of  their  wonderful  experience  at 
the  Interpreter's  hut  and  the  magnificent  climax  of 
that  day's  adventure,  the  children  had  determined 
to  go  yet  farther  afield.  It  was  true  that  their  father 
had  threatened  dire  results  if  they  should  continue 
the  acquaintance  begun  at  the  foot  of  the  Inter 
preter's  zigzag  stairway,  but,  sufficient  unto  the 
day—  They  would  visit  the  great  castle  on  the 
hill  where  their  beautiful  princess  lady  lived.  And, 
who  could  tell,  perhaps  they  might  see  her  once  more. 
Perhaps —  -  "But  that,"  said  tiny  Maggie,  "was  too 
wonderful  ever  to  happen  again." 

The  way  had  been  rather  long  for  bare  little  feet. 
But  excited  hope  had  strengthened  them.  And  so 
they  had  climbed  the  hill,  and  had  come  at  last  to 

66 


ADAM  WARD'S  ESTATE 


the  iron  fence  through  which  they  could  see  the 
world  of  bright  flowers  and  clean  grass  and  shady 
trees,  and,  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  the  big  house.  With 
their  hungry  little  faces  thrust  between  the  strong 
iron  pickets,  Sam  Whaley's  children  feasted  their 
eyes  on  the  beauties  of  Adam  Ward's  possessions1. 
Even  Bobby,  in  his  rapture  over  the  loveliness  of 
the  scene,  forgot  for  the  moment  his  desire  to  blow 
up  the  castle,  with  its  owner  and  all. 

Behind  his  clump  of  shrubbery,  Adam  Ward, 
crouching  like  some  stealthy  creature  of  the  jungle, 
watched  and  listened. 

From  the  shelter  of  the  arbor,  Adam  Ward's 
daughter  looked  upon  the  scene  with  white-faced 
interest. 

"Gee,"  said  Bobby,  "some  place,  I'd  say!" 

"Ain't  it  pretty?"  murmured  little  Maggie. 
"  Just  like  them  places  where  the  fairies  live." 

"Huh,"  returned  the  boy,  "old  Adam  Ward,  he 
ain't  no  fairy  I'm  a-tellin'  yer. " 

To  which  Maggie,  hurt  by  this  suggested  break  in 
the  spell  of  her  enchantment,  returned  indignantly, 
"Well,  I  guess  the  fairies  can  live  in  all  them  there 
pretty  flowers  an'  things  just  the  same,  if  old  Adam 
does  own  'em.  You  can't  shut  fairies  out  with  no 
big  iron  fences." 

"That's  so,"  admitted  Bobby.  "Gee,  I  wisht  we 
was  fairies,  so's  we  could  sneak  in!  Gee,  wouldn't 
yer  like  ter  take  a  roll  on  that  there  grass?" 

"Huh,"  returned  the  little  girl,  "I  know  what  I'd 
do  if  I  was  a  fairy.  I'd  hide  in  that  there  bunch  of 
flowers  over  there,  an'  I'd  watch  till  the  beautiful 

67 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

princess  lady  with  the  kind  heart  come  along,  an' 
I'd  tell  her  where  she  could  find  them  there  jewels  of 
happiness  what  the  Interpreter  told  us  about." 

"Do  yer  reckon  she's  in  the  castle  there,  right 
now?"  asked  Bobby. 

"I  wonder!"  murmured  Maggie. 

"Betcher  can't  guess  which  winder  is  hern." 

"Bet  I  kin;  it's  that  there  one  with  all  them  vines 
around  it.  Princess  ladies  allus  has  vines  a-growin' 
'roun'  their  castle  winders — so's  when  the  prince 
comes  ter  rescue  'em  he  kin  climb  up." 

"  Wisht  she'd  come  out." 

"  I  wish " 

Little  Maggie's  wish  was  never  expressed,  for  at 
that  moment,  from  behind  that  near-by  clump  of 
shrubbery  a  man  sprang  toward  them,  his  face  dis 
torted  with  passion  and  his  arms  tossing  in  threat 
ening  gestures. 

The  children,  too  frightened  to  realize  the  safety 
of  then'  position  on  the  other  side  of  those  iron  bars, 
stood  speechless.  For  the  moment  they  could 
neither  cry  out  nor  run. 

"Get  out!"  Adam  Ward  yelled,  hoarse  with  rage, 
as  he  would  have  driven  off  a  trespassing  dog. 
"Get  out!  Go  home  where  you  belong!  Don't  you 
know  this  is  private  property?  Do  you  think  I  am 
keeping  a  circus  here  for  all  the  dirty  brats  in  the 
country  to  look  at?  Get  out,  I  tell  you,  or 
I'll- 

With  frantic  speed  the  two  children  fled  down  the 
hill. 

Adam  Ward  laughed — laughed  until  he  was  forced 

68 


ADAM  WARD'S  ESTATE 


to  hold  his  sides  and  the  tears  of  his  ungodly  mirth 
rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

But  such  laughter  is  a  fearful  thing  to  see.  White 
and  trembling  with  the  shame  and  the  horror  of  it, 
Helen  crouched  in  her  hiding  place,  not  daring  even 
to  move.  She  felt,  as  never  before,  the  presence  of 
that  spirit  which  possessed  her  father  and  haunted 
her  home.  It  was  as  if  the  hidden  thing  of  which  she 
had  forced  herself  to  speak  to  the  Interpreter  were 
suddenly  about  to  materialize  before  her  eyes.  She 
wanted  to  scream — to  cry  aloud  her  fear — to  shriek 
her  protest — but  sheer  terror  held  her  motionless 
and  dumb. 

The  spell  was  broken  by  Mrs.  Ward  who,  from 
somewhere  in  the  grounds,  was  calling,  "Adam! 
Oh-h,  Adam!" 

The  man  heard,  and  Helen  saw  him  controlling 
his  laughter,  and  looking  cautiously  about. 

Again  the  call  came,  and  there  was  an  anxious 
note  in  the  voice.  "Adam — father — Oh-h,  father, 
where  are  you?" 

With  a  cruel  grin  still  twisting  his  gray  face,  Adam 
slunk  behind  a  clump  of  bushes. 

Helen  Ward  crept  from  her  hiding  place  and, 
keeping  the  little  arbor  between  herself  and  her 
father,  stole  away  through  the  grounds.  When  she 
was  beyond  his  hearing,  she  almost  ran,  as  if  to  escape 
from  a  spot  accursed. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ON   THE  OLD  ROAD 

WHEN  Bobby  and  Maggie  Whaley  fled  from 
the  immediate  vicinity  of  Adam  Ward's 
estate,  they  were  beside  themselves  with 
fear — blind,  unreasoning,  instinctive  fear. 

There  is  a  fear  that  is  reasonable — that  is  born  of  an 
intelligent  comprehension  of  the  danger  that  menaces, 
and  there  is  a  fear  that  is  born  of  ignorance — of 
inability  to  understand  the  nature  of  the  danger. 
These  children  of  the  Flats  had  nothing  in  their 
little  lives  by  which  they  might  know  the  owner  of  the 
Mill,  or  visualize  the  world  in  which  the  man  for 
whom  their  father  worked  lived.  To  Bobby  and 
Maggie  the  home  of  Adam  Ward  was  a  place  of 
mystery,  as  far  removed  from  the  world  of  their 
actualities  as  any  fabled  castle  in  fairyland  could 
possibly  be. 

Sam  Whaley 's  distorted  views  of  all  employers  in 
the  industrial  world,  and  his  fanatical  ideas  of  class 
loyalty,  were  impressed  with  weird  exaggeration 
upon  the  fertile  minds  of  his  children.  From  their 
father's  conversation  with  his  workmen  neighbors, 
and  from  the  suggestive  expressions  and  epithets 
which  Sam  had  gleaned  from  the  literature  upon 
which  he  fed  his  mind  and  which  he  used  with  such 
gusto,  Bobby  and  Maggie  had  gathered  the  material 

70 


ON  THE   OLD   ROAD 


out  of  which  they  had  created  an  imaginary  monster, 
capable  of  destroying  them  with  fiendish  delight. 
They  had  seen  angry  men  too  often  to  be  much  dis 
turbed  by  mere  human  wrath.  But,  to  them,  this 
Adam  Ward  who  had  appeared  so  suddenly  from  the 
shrubbery  was  more  than  a  man;  he  was  all  that 
they  had  been  taught  to  believe — a  hideous  thing  of 
more  dreadful  power  and  sinister  purpose  than  could 
be  imagined. 

With  all  their  strength  they  ran  down  the  old  hill 
road  toward  the  world  of  the  Flats  where  they  be 
longed.  They  dared  not  even  look  over  their  shoulders. 
The  very  ground  seemed  to  drag  at  their  feet  to  hold 
them  back.  Then  little  Maggie  stumbled  and  fell. 
Her  frantic  screams  reached  Bobby,  who  was  a  few  feet 
in  advance,  and  the  boy  stopped  instantly  and  faced 
about,  with  terror  in  his  eyes  but  with  evident  deter 
mination  to  defend  his  sister  at  any  cost. 

When  he  had  pulled  Maggie  to  her  feet,  and  it  was 
certain  that  there  was  nothing  pursuing  them,  Bobby, 
boylike,  laughed.  "Gee,  but  we  made  some  git- 
away,  that  trip!  Gee,  I'll  tell  the  world!" 

The  little  girl  clung  to  her  protector,  shaking  with 
weariness  and  fear.  "I — can't  run  'nother  step," 
she  gasped.  "  Will  he  come  after  us  here?  " 

"Naw,"  returned  the  boy,  with  reassuring  bold 
ness,  "he  won't  come  this  far.  Yer  just  lay  down 
in  the  grass,  under  this  here  tree,  'til  yer  catch  yer 
wind;  then  we'll  make  it  on  down  to  the  Inter 
preter's — 'tain't  far  to  the  stairs.  You  just  take 
it  easy.  I'll  watch." 

The  soft  grass  and  the  cool  shade  were  very 

71 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD    HOUSE 

pleasant  after  their  wild  run,  and  they  were  loath 
to  go,  even  when  little  Maggie  had  recovered  from 
her  exhaustion.  Very  soon,  when  no  danger  ap 
peared,  the  boy  forgot  to  watch  and  began  an  ani 
mated  discussion  of  their  thrilling  experience. 

But  Maggie  did  not  share  her  brother's  boastful 
triumph.  "Do  you  suppose,"  she  said,  wistfully, 
"that  he  is  like  that  to  the  princess  lady?" 

Bobby  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  "I  don't  know. 
Yer  can't  tell  what  he'd  do  to  her  if  he  took  a  notion. 
Old  Adam  Ward  would  do  anything  that's  mean, 
to  anybody,  no  matter  who.  I'll  bet — 

The  sound  of  some  one  approaching  from  the  direc 
tion  of  the  castle  interrupted  Bobby's  conjectures. 

Maggie  would  have  made  another  frantic  effort  to 
escape,  but  the  boy  caught  her  roughly  and  drew  her 
down  beside  him.  "No  use  to  run — yer  can't  make 
it,"  he  whispered.  "Best  lay  low.  An'  don't  yer 
dast  even  whimper." 

Lying  prone,  they  wormed  themselves  into  the 
tall  grass,  with  the  trunk  of  the  tree  between  them 
and  the  road,  until  it  would  have  been  a  keen 
observer,  indeed,  who  would  have  noticed  them  in 
passing. 

They  heard  the  approaching  danger  coming  nearer 
and  nearer.  Little  Maggie  buried  her  face  in  the 
grass  roots  to  stifle  a  scream.  Now  it  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  tree.  It  was  passing  on.  Sud 
denly  they  almost  buried  themselves  in  the  ground 
in  their  effort  to  lie  closer  to  the  earth.  The  sound 
of  the  footsteps  had  ceased. 

For  what  seemed  to  them  hours,  the  frightened 

72 


ON   THE   OLD   ROAD 


children  lay  motionless,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe. 
Then  another  sound  came  to  their  straining  ears — a 
sound  not  unfamiliar  to  the  children  of  the  Flats. 
A  woman  was  weeping. 

Cautiously,  the  more  courageous  Bobby  raised 
his  head  until  he  could  peer  through  the  tangled 
stems  and  blades  of  the  sheltering  grass.  A  moment 
he  looked,  then  gently  shook  his  sister's  arm.  Imi 
tating  her  brother's  caution,  little  Maggie  raised 
her  frightened  face.  Only  a  few  steps  away,  their 
princess  lady  was  crouching  in  the  grass,  with  her 
face  buried  in  her  hands,  crying  bitterly. 

"Well,  what  do  yer  know  about  that?"  whispered 
Bobby. 

A  moment  longer  they  kept  their  places,  whis 
pering  in  consultation.  Then  they  rose  quietly  to 
their  feet  and,  hand  in  hand,  stood  waiting. 

Helen  had  not  consciously  followed  the  children. 
Indeed,  her  mind  was  so  occupied  with  her  own 
troubled  thoughts  that  she  had  forgotten  the  little 
victims  of  her  father's  insane  cruelty.  To  avoid 
meeting  her  mother,  as  she  fled  from  the  scene  of 
her  father's  madness,  she  had  taken  a  course  that 
led  her  toward  the  entrance  to  the  estate.  With 
the  one  thought  of  escaping  from  the  invisible  pres 
ence  of  that  hidden  thing,  she  had  left  the  grounds 
and  followed  the  quiet  old  road. 

When  the  storm  of  her  grief  had  calmed  a  little, 
the  young  woman  raised  her  head  and  saw  Sam 
Whaley's  dirty,  ill-kept  children  gazing  at  her  with 
wondering  sympathy.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say 

73 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

that  Helen  Ward  was  more  embarrassed  than  she 
would  have  been  had  she  found  herself  thus  suddenly 
in  the  presence  of  royalty. 

"I  am  sorry  you  were  frightened,"  'she  said,  hes 
itatingly.  "  I  can't  believe  that  he  really  would  have 
hurt  you." 

"Huh,"  grunted  Bobby.  "I'm  darned  glad  we 
was  outside  of  that  there  fence." 

Maggie's  big  eyes  were  eloquent  with  compassion. 
"Did — did  he  scare  yer,  too?" 

Helen  held  back  her  tears  with  an  effort.  "Yes, 
dear,  he  frightened  me,  too — dreadfully." 

With  shy  friendliness,  little  Maggie  drew  closer. 
"Is  he — is  he  sure  'nuff,  yer  father?" 

"Yes,"  returned  Helen,  "he  is  my  father." 

"Gee!"  ejaculated  Bobby.  "An'  is  he  always 
like  that?" 

"Oh,  no,  indeed,"  returned  Helen,  quickly. 
"Father  is  really  kind  and  good,  but  he — he  is  sick 
now  and  not  wholly  himself,  you  see." 

"Huh,"  said  Bobby.  "He  didn't  act  very  sick  to 
me.  What's  ailin'  him?" 

Helen  answered  slowly,  "I — we  don't  just  know 
what  it  is.  The  doctors  say  it  is  a  nervous  trouble." 

"An'  does  he — does  he  ever  whip  yer?"  asked 
Maggie. 

In  spite  of  the  pain  in  her  heart,  Helen  smiled. 
"No — never." 

"Our  dad  gits  mad,  too,  sometimes,"  said  Bobby. 
"But,  gee!  he  ain't  never  like  that.  Dad,  he 
wouldn't  care  if  somebody  just  looked  into  our  yard. 
We  wasn't  a-hurtin'  nothin' — just  a-lookin' — that's 

74 


ON   THE  OLD   ROAD 


all.  Yer  can't  hurt  nothin'  just  a-lookin',  can 
yer?" 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Helen. 

"Be  yer  happy?"  asked  Maggie,  suddenly,  with 
disconcerting  directness. 

"Why!"  replied  Helen,  "I What  makes  you 

ask  such  a  funny  question?" 

Maggie  was  too  much  embarrassed  at  her  own 
boldness  to  answer,  and  Bobby  came  to  her  rescue. 

"She  wants  to  know  because  the  Interpreter,  he 
tole  us  about  a  princess  what  lived  in  a  castle  an' 
wasn't  happy  'til  the  fairy  told  her  how  to  find  the 
jewel  of  happiness;  an'  Mag,  here,  she  thinks  it's 
you." 

"And  where  did  the  princess  find  the  jewel  of 
happiness?"  asked  Helen. 

Little  Maggie's  anxiety  to  help  overcame  her 
timidity  and  she  answered  precisely,  "On  the  shores 
of  the  sea  of  life  which  was  not  far  from  the  castle 
where  the  beautiful  princess  lived." 

Helen  looked  toward  the  Flats,  the  Mill,  and  the 
homes  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  old  house.  "The 
shores  of  the  sea  of  life,"  she  repeated,  thoughtfully. 
"I  see." 

"Yes,"  continued  Maggie,  with  her  tired  little 
face  alight,  and  her  eyes  big  with  excited  eagerness, 
"but  the  beautiful  princess,  she  didn't  know  that 
there  jewel  of  happiness  when  she  seen  it." 

"No?"  said  Helen,  smiling  at  her  little  teacher. 

"No — an'  so  she  picked  up  all  the  bright,  shiny 
stones  what  was  no  good  at  all,  'til  the  fairy  showed 
her  how  the  real  jewel  she  was  a-wantin'  was  an  old, 

75 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

ugly,  dirt-colored  thing  what  didn't  look  like  any 
jewel,  no  more  'n  nothin'." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  said  Helen  again.  And  Bobby 
thought  that  she  looked  at  them  as  though  she  were 
thinking  very  hard. 

"Yer  forgot  something  Mag,"  said  the  boy,  sud 
denly. 

"I  ain't  neither,"  returned  his  sister,  with  unusual 
boldness.  "Yer  shut  up  an'  see."  Then,  to  Helen, 
"Is  yer  heart  kind,  lady?" 

"I — I  hope  so,  dear,"  returned  the  disconcerted 
Helen.  "Why?" 

"Because,  if  it  is,  then  the  fames  will  help  yer 
find  the  real  jewel  of  happiness,  'cause  that  was  the 
reason,  yer  see,  it  all  happened — 'cause  the  beautiful 
princess's  heart  was  kind."  She  turned  to  Bobby 
triumphantly,  "There,  ain't  that  like  the  Interpreter 
said?" 

"Uh-huh,"  agreed  the  boy.  "But  yer  needn't  to 
worry — her  heart's  all  right.  Didn't  she  give  us  that 
there  grand  ride  in  her  swell  autermobile?  " 

Little  Maggie's  embarrassment  suddenly  returned. 

"  Did  you  really  enjoy  the  ride?  "  asked  Helen. 

Bobby  answered,  "I'll  say  we  did.  Gee!  but  yer 
ought  to  a  seen  us  puttin'  it  all  over  everybody  in  the 
Flats." 

Something  in  the  boy's  answer  brought  another 
smile  to  Helen's  lips,  but  it  was  not  a  smile  of  hap 
piness. 

"I  really  must  go  now,"  she  said,  rising.  "Thank 
you  for  telling  me  about  the  happiness  jewel.  Don't 
you  think  that  it  is  tune  for  you  to  be  running  along 

76 


ON   THE   OLD   ROAD 


home?  Your  mother  will  be  wondering  where  you 
are,  won't  she?" 

"Uh-huh,"  agreed  Bobby. 

But  Maggie'^  mind  was  fixed  upon  more  important 
things  than  the  time  of  day.  With  an  effort,  she 
forced  herself  to  say,  "If  the  fairy  comes  to  yer  will 
yer  tell  me  about  it,  sometime?  I  ain't  never  seen 
one  myself  an' — an' " 

"You  poor  little  mite!"  said  Helen.  "Yes, 
indeed,  I  will  tell  you  about  it  if  the  fairy  comes. 
And  I  will  tell  the  fairy  about  you,  too.  But,  who 
knows,  perhaps  the  happiness  fairy  will  visit  you 
first,  and  you  can  tell  her  about  me." 

And  something  that  shone  in  the  beautiful  face 
of  the  young  woman,  or  something  that  sang  in  her 
voice,  made  little  Maggie  sure — deep  down  inside — 
that  her  princess  lady  would  find  the  jewel  of  hap 
piness,  just  as  the  Interpreter  had  said.  But 
neither  the  child  of  the  Flats,  nor  the  daughter  of 
the  big  house  on  the  hill  knew  that  the  jewel  of 
happiness  was,  even  at  that  moment,  within  reach 
of  the  princess  lady's  hand. 

When  Helen  had  disappeared  from  their  sight,  the 
two  children  started  on  their  way  down  the  hill 
toward  the  dingy  Flats. 

"Gee,"  said  Bobby,  "won't  we  have  something  to 

tell  the  kids  now?     Gee!     We'll  sure  make  'em  sore 

they  wasn't  along.     Think  of  us  a-talkin'  to  old 

Adam  Ward's  daughter,  herself .     Gee!     Some  stunt 

-I'll  tell  the  world." 

They  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  old  stairway 

77 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

and  were  discussing  whether  or  not  they  dared  pro 
long  their  absence  from  home  by  paying  a  visit  to 
the  Interpreter,  when  a  man  appeared  on  the  road 
from  town.  Bobby  caught  sight  of  the  approaching 
stranger  first,  and  the  boy's  freckled  countenance 
lighted  with  excited  interest  and  admiration. 

"Hully  Gee!"  he  exclaimed,  catching  Maggie  by 
the  arm.  "  Would  yer  look  who's  a-comin'!" 

The  man  was  not,  in  his  general  appearance,  one 
to  inspire  a  feeling  of  confidence.  He  was  a  little 
above  medium  height,  with  fat  shoulders,  a  thick 
neck,  and  dark,  heavy  features  with  coarse  lips 
showing  through  a  black  beard  trimmed  to  a  point, 
and  small  black  eyes  set  close  above  a  large  nose 
with  flaring  nostrils.  His  clothing  was  good,  and  he 
carried  himself  with  assurance.  But  altogether 
there  was  about  him  the  unmistakable  air  of  a  for 
eigner. 

Bobby  continued  in  an  excited  whisper,  "That 
there's  Jake  Vodell  we've  heard  Dad  an'  the  men 
talkin'  so  much  about.  He's  the  guy  what's  a-goin' 
to  put  the  fear  of  God  into  the  Mill  bosses  and  rich 
folks.  He's  a-goin'  to  take  away  old  Adam  Ward's 
money  an'  Mill,  an'  autermobiles,  an'  house  an' — 
everything,  an'  divide  'em  all  up  'mong  us  poor 
workin'  folks.  Gee,  but  he's  a  big  gun,  I'm  tellin' 
yer!" 

The  man  came  on  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and 
stopped  before  the  children.  For  a  long  moment 
he  looked  them  over  with  speculative  interest. 
"Well,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "and  who  are  you?  That 
you  belong  in  this  neighborhood  it  is  easy  to  see." 

78 


ON   THE   OLD   ROAD 


"  We're  Bobby  and  Maggie  Whaley,"  answered  the 
boy. 

The  man's  black  eyebrows  were  lifted,  and  he 
nodded  his  head  reflectively.  "Oh-ho,  you  are  Sam 
Whaley'skids,heh?" 

"Uh-huh,"  returned  Bobby.  "An'  I  know  who 
yer  are,  too." 

"So?"  said  the  man. 

"Uh-huh,  yer  Jake  Vodell,  the  feller  what's  a- 
goin'  to  make  all  the  big  bugs  hunt  their  holes,  and 
give  us  poor  folks  a  chance.  Gee,  but  I'd  like  to  be 
you!" 

The  man  showed  his  strong  white  teeth  in  a 
pleased  smile.  "You  are  all  right,  kid,"  he  returned. 
"I  think,  maybe,  you  will  play  a  big  part  in  the  cause 
sometime — when  you  grow  up." 

Bobby  swelled  out  his  chest  with  pride  at  this  good 
word  from  his  hero.  "I'm  big  enough  right  now  to 
put  a  stick  o'  danermite  under  old  Adam  Ward's 
castle,  up  there  on  the  hill." 

Little  Maggie  caught  her  brother's  arm.  "Bobby, 
yer  ain't  a-goin' 

The  man  laughed.  "That's  the  stuff,  kid,"  he 
said.  "But  you  better  let  jobs  like  that  alone — 
until  you  are  a  bit  older,  heh?  " 

"Mag  an'  me  has  been  up  there  to  the  castle  all 
this  afternoon,"  bragged  the  boy.  "An'  we  talked 
with  old  Adam's  daughter,  too,  an' — an'  everything." 

The  man  stared  at  him.  "What  is  this  you  tell 
me?" 

"It's  so,"  returned  Bobby,  stoutly,  "ain't  it, 
Mag?  An'  the  other  day  Helen  Ward,  she  give  us  a 

79 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

ride,  in  her  autermobile — while  she  was  a-visitin' 
with  the  Interpreter  up  there." 

Jake  VodelTs  black  brows  were  drawn  together  in 
a  frown  of  disapproval.  "So  this  Adam  Ward's 
daughter,  too,  calls  on  the  Interpreter,  heh!  Many 
people,  it  seems,  go  to  this  Interpreter."  To  Bobby 
he  said  suddenly,  "Look  here,  it  will  be  better  if  you 
kids  stay  away  from  such  people — it  will  get  you 
nothing  to  work  yourselves  in  with  those  who  are 
not  of  your  own  class!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  Bobby,  dutifully. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  you  can  do,  though,"  con 
tinued  the  man.  "You  can  tell  your  father  that  I 
want  him  at  the  meeting  to-night.  Think  you  can 
remember,  heh?" 

"Yer  bet  I  can,"  replied  the  boy.  "But  where'll 
I  tell  him  the  meetin'  is?" 

"Never  you  mind  that,"  returned  the  other. 
"You  just  tell  him  I  want  him — he  will  know  where. 
And  now  be  on  your  way." 

To  Bobby's  utter  amazement,  Jake  Vodell  went 
quickly  up  the  steps  that  led  to  the  Interpreter's  hut. 

' '  Gee ! ' '  exclaimed  the  wondering  urchin.  ' '  What 
do  yer  know  about  that,  Mag?  He's  a-goin'  to 
see  our  old  Interpreter.  Gee!  I  guess  the  Inter 
preter's  one  of  us  all  right.  Jake  Vodell  wouldn't 
be  a-goin'  to  see  him  if  he  wasn't." 

As  they  trudged  away  through  the  black  dust,  the 
boy  added,  "Darn  it  all,  Mag,  if  the  Interpreter's 
one  of  us  what's  the  princess  lady  goin'  to  see  him 
for?" 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  HIDDEN  THING 

HIDING  in  the  shrubbery,  Adam  Ward 
chuckled  and  grinned  with  strange  glee  as 
he  listened  to  his  wife  calling  for  him.  Here 
and  there  about  the  grounds  she  searched  anxiously; 
but  the  man  kept  himself  hidden  and  enjoyed  her 
distress.  At  last,  when  she  had  come  so  near  that 
discovery  was  certain,  he  suddenly  stepped  out  from 
the  bushes  and,  facing  her,  waited  expectantly. 

And  now,  by  some  miracle,  Adam  Ward's  coun 
tenance  was  transformed — his  eyes  were  gentle,  his 
gray  face  calm  and  kindly.  His  smile  became  the 
affectionate  greeting  of  a  man  who,  past  the  middle 
years  of  life,  is  steadfast  in  his  love  for  the  mother  of 
his  grown-up  children. 

Mrs.  Ward  had  been,  in  the  years  of  her  young 
womanhood,  as  beautiful  as  her  daughter  Helen. 
But  her  face  was  lined  now  with  care  and  shadowed 
by  sadness,  as  though  with  the  success  of  her  hus 
band  there  had  come,  also,  regrets  and  disappoint 
ments  which  she  had  suffered  in  silence  and  alone. 

She  returned  Adam's  smile  of  greeting,  when  she 
saw  him  standing  there,  but  that  note  of  anxiety 
was  still  hi  her  voice  as  she  said  gently,  "Where  in 
the  world  have  you  been?  I  have  looked  all  over 
the  place  for  you." 

He  laughed  as  he  went  to  her — a  laugh  of  good 

81 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

comradeship.  "I  was  just  sitting  over  there  under 
that  tree,"  he  answered.  "I  heard  you  when  you 
called  the  first  time,  but  thought  I  would  let  you 
hunt  a  while.  The  exercise  will  do  you  good — keep 
you  from  getting  too  fat  in  your  old  age." 

She  laughed  with  him,  and  answered,  "Well,  you 
can  just  come  and  talk  to  me  now,  while  I  rest." 

Arm  in  arm,  they  went  to  the  rustic  seat  in  the 
shade  of  the  tree  where,  a  few  minutes  before,  he 
had  so  aimlessly  broken  the  twigs. 

But  when  they  were  seated  the  man  frowned  with 
displeasure.  "Alice,  I  wish  to  goodness  there  was 
some  way  to  make  these  men  about  the  place  keep  a 
closer  watch  of  things." 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly.  "Has  something 
gone  wrong,  Adam?" 

"Nothing  more  than  usual,"  he  answered,  harshly. 
"There  are  always  a  lot  of  prowlers  around.  But 
they  don't  stay  long  when  I  get  after  them."  He 
laughed,  shortly — a  mirthless,  shamefaced  laugh. 

"I  am  sorry  you  were  annoyed,"  she  said,  gently. 

"Annoyed!"  he  returned,  with  the  manner  of  a 
petulant  child.  "I'll  annoy  them.  I  tell  you  I  am 
not  going  to  stand  for  a  lot  of  people's  coming  here, 
sneaking  and  prying  around  to  see  what  they  can 
see.  If  anybody  wants  to  enjoy  a  place  like  this  let 
him  work  for  it  as  I  have." 

She  waited  a  while  before  she  said,  as  if  feeling  her 
way  toward  a  definite  point,  "It  has  been  hard  work, 
hasn't  it,  Adam?  Almost  too  hard,  I  fear.  Did 
you  ever  ask  yourself  if,  after  all,  it  is  really  worth 
the  cost?" 

82 


THE   HIDDEN   THING 


"Worth  the  cost!  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  pay 
ing  more  than  things  are  worth.  This  place  cost  me 
exactly " 

She  interrupted  him,  quietly,  "I  don't  mean  that, 
dear.  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  money.  I  was 
thinking  of  what  it  has  all  cost  in  work  and  worry 
and — and  other  things." 

"It  has  all  been  for  you  and  the  children,  Alice," 
he  answered,  wearily;  and  there  was  that  in  his  voice 
and  face  which  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes.  "You 
know  that,  so  far  as  I  am  personally  concerned,  it 
doesn't  mean  a  thing  in  the  world  to  me.  I  don't 
know  anything  outside  of  the  Mill  myself." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  with  a  caressing  touch. 
"I  know — I  know — and  that  is  just  what  troubles  me. 
Perhaps  if  you  would  share  it  more — I  mean  if  you 
could  enjoy  it  more — I  might  feel  different  about 
it.  We  were  all  so  happy,  Adam,  in  the  old  house." 

When  he  made  no  reply  to  this  but  sat  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  she  said,  pleadingly,  "Won't 
you  put  aside  all  the  cares  and  worries  of  the  Mill 
now,  and  just  be  happy  with  us,  Adam?  " 

The  man  moved  uneasily. 

"You  know  what  the  doctors  say,"  she  continued, 
gently.  "You  really— 

He  interrupted  impatiently,  "The  doctors  are  a 
set  of  fools.  I'll  show  them!" 

She  persisted  with  gentle  patience.  "But  even 
if  the  doctors  are  wrong  about  your  health,  still 
there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  rest  after  all 
your  years  of  hard  work.  I  am  sure  we  have  every 
thing  in  the  world  that  any  one  could  possibly  want. 

83 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

There  is  not  the  shadow  of  a  necessity  to  make  you 
go  on  wearing  your  life  out  as  you  have  been  doing." 

"Much  you  know  about  what  is  necessary  for  me 
to  do,"  he  retorted.  "A  man  isn't  going  to  let  the 
business  that  he  has  been  all  his  life  building  up  go  to 
smash  just  because  he  has  made  money  enough  to 
keep  him  without  work  for  the  rest  of  his  days." 

"  There  are  other  things  that  can  go  to  smash 
besides  business,  Adam,"  she  returned,  sadly.  "  And 
I  am  sure  that  the  Mill  will  be  safe  enough  now  in 
John's  hands." 

"John!"  he  exclaimed,  bitterly.  "It's  John  and 
his  crazy  ideas  that  I  am  afraid  of." 

She  returned,  quickly,  with  a  mother's  pride, 
"Why,  Adam!  You  have  said  so  many  tunes  how 
wonderfully  well  John  was  doing,  and  what  a  splendid 
head  he  had  for  business  details  and  management. 
It  was  only  last  week  that  you  told  me  John  was  more 
capable  now  than  some  of  the  men  that  have  been  in 
the  office  with  you  for  several  years." 

Adam  Ward  rose  and  paced  uneasily  up  and  down 
before  her.  "You  don't  understand  at  all,  Alice. 
It  is  not  John's  business  ability  or  his  willingness  to 
get  into  the  harness  that  worries  me.  It  is  the  fool 
notions  that  he  picked  up  somewhere  over  there  in 
the  war — there,  and  from  that  meddlesome  old  social 
ist  basket  maker." 

"Just  what  notions  do  you  mean,  Adam?  Is  it 
John's  friendship  with  Charlie  Martin  that  you 
fear?" 

"His  friendship  with  young  Martin  is  only  part  of 
it.  I  am  afraid  of  his  attitude  toward  the  whole 

84 


THE   HIDDEN  THING 


industrial  situation.  Haven't  you  heard  his  wild, 
impracticable  and  dangerous  theories  of  applying, 
as  he  says,  the  ideals  of  patriotism,  and  love  of 
country,  and  duty  to  humanity,  and  sacrifice,  and 
heroism,  and  God  knows  what  other  nonsense, 
to  the  work  of  the  world?  You  know  as  well  as  I 
do  how  he  talks  about  the  comradeship  of  the  mills 
and  factories  and  workshops  being  like  the  comrade 
ship  of  the  trenches  and  camps  and  battlefields.  His 
notions  of  the  relation  between  an  employer  and  his 
employees  would  be  funny  if  they  were  not  so  dan 
gerous.  Look  at  his  sympathy  with  the  unions! 
And  yet  I  have  shown  him  on  my  books  where  this 
union  business  has  cost  me  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  dollars!  Comradeship!  Loyalty!  I  tell  you  I 
know  what  I'm  talking  about  from  experience.  The 
only  way  to  handle  the  working  class  is  to  keep  them 
where  they  belong.  Give  them  the  least  chance  to 
think  you  are  easy  and  they  are  on  your  neck.  If  I 
had  my  way  I'd  hold  them  to  their  jobs  at  the  muzzle 
of  a  machine  gun.  Mclver  has  the  right  idea.  He  is 
getting  himself  in  shape  right  now  for  the  biggest 
fight  with  labor  that  he  has  ever  had.  Everybody 
knows  that  agitator  Jake  Vodell  is  here  to  make 
trouble.  The  laboring  classes  have  had  a  long  spell 
of  good  tunes  now  and  they're  ripe  for  anything. 
All  they  need  is  a  start  and  this  anarchist  is  here 
to  start  them.  And  John,  instead  of  lining  up  with 
Mclver  and  getting  ready  to  fight  them  to  a  finish, 
is  spending  his  time  hobnobbing  with  Charlie  Martin 
and  listening  to  that  old  fool  Interpreter." 

"Come,  dear,"  she  said,  soothingly.     "Come  and 

85 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

sit  down  here  with  me.     Don't  let's  worry  about 
what  may  happen." 

He  obeyed  her  with  the  manner  of  a  fretful  child. 
And  presently,  as  she  talked,  the  cloud  lifted  from 
his  gray,  haggard  face,  and  he  grew  calm.  Soon, 
when  she  made  some  smiling  remark,  he  even  smiled 
back  at  her  with  the  affectionate  companionship  of 
their  years. 

11  You  will  try  not  to  worry  about  things  so  much, 
won't  you,  Adam?"  she  said,  at  last.  "For  my 
sake,  won't  you?" 

"But  I  tell  you,  Alice,  there  is  serious  trouble 
ahead." 

"Perhaps  that  is  all  the  more  reason  why  you 
should  retire  now,"  she  urged.  He  stirred  uneasily, 
but  she  continued,  "Just  suppose  the  worst  that 
could  possibly  happen  should  happen,  suppose  you 
even  had  to  give  up  the  Mill  to  Pete  Martin  and  the 
men,  suppose  you  lost  the  new  process  and  every 
thing,  and  we  were  obliged  to  give  up  our  home  here 
and  go  back  to  live  in  the  old  house — it  would  still  be 
better  than  losing  you,  dear.  Don't  you  know  that 
to  have  you  well  and  strong  would  be  more  to  Helen 
and  John  and  to  me  than  anything  else  could  possi 
bly  be?" 

Mrs.  Ward  knew,  as  the  words  left  her  lips,  that 
she  had  said  the  wrong  thing.  She  had  heard  him 
rave  about  his  ownership  of  the  new  process  too  many 
times  not  to  know — while  any  mention  of  his  old 
workman  friend  Peter  Martin  always  threw  him  into 
a  rage.  But  in  her  anxiety  the  forbidden  words  had 
escaped  her. 

86 


THE  HIDDEN  THING 


She  drew  back  with  a  little  gasp  of  fear  at  the  swift 
change  that  came  over  his  face.  As  if  she  had 
touched  a  hidden  spring  in  his  being  the  man's 
countenance  was  darkened  by  furious  hatred  and 
desperate  fear.  His  trembling  lips  were  ashen;  the 
muscles  of  his  face  twitched  and  worked;  his  eyes 
blazed  with  a  vicious  anger  beyond  all  control. 
Springing  to  his  feet,  he  faced  her  with  a  snarling 
exclamation,  and  in  a  voice  shaking  with  passion, 
cried,  "Pete  Martin!  What  is  he?  Who  is  he? 
Everything  he  has  in  th«  world  he  owes  to  me. 
Haven't  I  kept  him  in  work  all  these  years?  Haven't 
I  paid  him  every  cent  of  his  wages?  Look  at  his 
home.  Not  many  working  men  have  been  able  to 
own  a  place  like  that.  What  would  he  have  done 
without  the  money  I  have  given  him  every  pay  day? 
I  could  have  turned  him  out  long  ago — kicked  him  out 
of  a  job  without  a  cent.  He's  had  all  that's  coming 
to  him — every  penny.  I  built  up  the  Mill.  That 
new  process  is  mine — it's  patented  in  my  name.  I 
have  had  the  best  lawyers  I  could  hire  to  protect  it 
on  every  possible  point.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  my 
business  brain  there  wouldn't  be  any  new  process. 
What  could  Pete  Martin  have  done  with  it — the 
fool  has  no  more  business  sense  than  a  baby.  I  intro 
duced  it — I  exploited  it — I  built  it  up  and  made  it 
worth  what  it  is,  and  there  isn't  a  court  in  the  world 
that  wouldn't  say  I  have  a  legal  right  to  it." 

In  vain  Mrs.  Ward  tried  to  soothe  him  with  reas 
suring  words,  pleading  with  him  to  be  calm. 

' '  I  know  they're  after  me, ' '  he  raved.  ' '  They  have 
tried  all  sorts  of  tricks.  There  is  always  some  sneak- 

87 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

ing  spy  watching  for  a  chance  to  get  me,  but  I'll  fix 
them.  I  built  the  business  up  and  I  can  tear  it  down. 
Let  them  try  to  take  anything  away  from  me  if  they 
dare.  Ill  burn  the  Mill  and  the  whole  town  before 
I'll  give  up  one  cent  of  my  legal  rights  to  Pete  Martin 
or  any  of  his  tribe." 

Forgetting  his  companion,  the  man  suddenly 
started  off  across  the  grounds,  waving  his  arms  and 
shaking  his  fists  in  wild  gestures  as  he  continued  his 
tirade  against  his  old  fellow  workman.  Mrs.  Ward 
knew  from  experience  the  uselessness  of  trying  to 
interfere  until  he  had  exhausted  himself. 

As  Helen  was  returning  to  the  house  after  her  talk 
with  the  children,  she  saw  her  mother  coming  slowly 
from  that  part  of  the  grounds  where  the  young 
woman  had  watched  her  father.  It  was  evident, 
even  at  a  distance,  that  Mrs.  Ward  was  greatly  dis 
tressed.  When  the  young  woman  reached  her 
mother's  side,  Mrs.  Ward  said,  simply,  "Your 
father,  dear — he  is  terribly  upset.  Go  to  him,  Helen, 
you  can  always  do  more  for  him  than  any  one  else — 
he  needs  you." 

It  was  not  an  easy  task  for  Helen  Ward  to  face  her 
father  just  then.  As  she  went  hi  search  of  him  she 
tried  to  put  from  her  mind  all  that  she  had  seen  and 
to  remember  only  that  he  was  ill.  She  found  him  in 
the  most  distant  and  lonely  part  of  the  grounds, 
sitting  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands — a  figure  of 
hopeless  despair. 

While  still  some  distance  away,  she  forced  herself 
to  call  cheerily,  "Hello,  father." 

88 


THE   HIDDEN   THING 


As  he  raised  his  head,  she  turned  to  pick  a  few 
flowers  from  a  near-by  bed.  When  he  had  had  a 
moment  to  regain,  in  a  measure,  his  self-control, 
she  went  toward  him,  arranging  her  blossoms  with 
careful  attention. 

Adam  Ward  watched  his  daughter  as  she  drew 
near,  much  as  a  condemned  man  might  have 
watched  through  the  grating  of  a  prison  window. 

"What  is  it,  father?"  she  asked,  gently,  when  she 
had  come  close  to  his  side.  "  Another  one  of  your 
dreadful  nervous  headaches?" 

He  put  a  shaking  hand  to  his  brow.  "Yes,"  he 
said  wearily. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  returned,  sitting  down  beside 
him.  "You  have  been  thinking  too  hard  again, 
haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  have  been  thinking  too  hard." 

"But  you're  going  to  stop  all  that  now,  aren't 
you?"  she  continued,  cheerily.  "You're  just  going 
to  forget  the  old  Mill,  and  do  nothing  but  rest  and 
play  with  me." 

"Could  I  learn  to  play,  do  you  think,  Helen?" 

"Why,  of  course  you  could,  father,  with  me  to 
teach  you.  That's  the  best  thing  I  do,  you  know." 

He  watched  her  closely.  "And  you  don't  think 
that  I — that  I  am  no  longer  capable  of  managing 
my  affairs?" 

She  laughed  gayly.  "What  a  silly  question — you 
capable — you,  father,  the  best  brain — the  best  busi 
ness  executive  in  Millsburgh,  You  know  that  is 
what  everybody  says  of  you.  You  are  just  tired, 
and  need  a  good  rest,  that  is  alL" 

89 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

The  man's  drooping  shoulders  lifted  and  his  face 
brightened  as  he  said,  slowly,  "I  guess  perhaps  you 
are  right,  daughter." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  she  returned,  eagerly.  Then 
she  added  brightly,  as  if  prompted  by  a  sudden  inspi 
ration,  "I'll  tell  you  what  you  do — ask  the  Inter 
preter." 

' '  Ask  the  Interpreter ! ' ' 

She  nodded,  smiling  as  if  she  had  put  a  puzzling 
conundrum  to  him. 

"You  mean  for  me  to  ask  that  paralyzed  old  basket 
maker's  advice?  You  mean,  ask  him  if  I  should 
retire  from  business?" 

Again  she  nodded  with  a  little  laugh;  but  under 
her  laughter  there  was  a  note  of  earnestness. 

"And  don't  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  it  is  the 
Interpreter  who  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  my  trouble?" 

"Father!" 

"The  Interpreter,  I  tell  you,  is  back  of  the  whole 
thing.  He  is  the  brains  of  the  labor  organizations  in 
Millsburgh  and  has  been  for  years.  Why,  it  was  the 
Interpreter  who  organized  the  first  union  hi  this 
district.  He  has  done  more  to  build  them  up  than 
all  the  others  put  together.  Pete  Martin  and  Charlie, 
the  ringleaders  of  the  Mill  workers'  union,  are  only 
his  active  lieutenants.  I  haven't  a  doubt  but  that 
he  is  responsible  for  this  agitator  Jake  Vodell's  com 
ing  to  Millsburgh.  That  miserable  shack  on  the 
cliff  is  the  real  headquarters  of  labor  in  this  part  of 
the  country.  Your  Interpreter  is  a  fine  one  for  me 
to  go  to  for  advice.  His  hut  is  a  fine  place  for  your 
brother  to  spend  his  spare  time.  It  would  be  a  fine 

90 


THE   HIDDEN   THING 


thing,  right  now,  with  this  man  Vodell  in  town,  for 
me  to  resign  and  leave  the  Mill  in  the  hands  of  John, 
who  is  already  in  the  hands  of  the  Interpreter  and  the 
Martins  and  their  Mill  workers'  union!" 

As  Adam  finished,  the  deep  sonorous  tones  of  the 
great  Mill  whistle  sounded  over  the  community. 
It  was  the  signal  for  the  closing  of  the  day's  work. 

Obedient  to  the  habit  of  years,  the  Mill  owner 
looked  at  his  watch.  In  his  mind  he  saw  the  day 
force  trooping  from  the  building  and  the  night  shift 
coming  in.  Throughout  the  entire  city,  hi  office  and 
shop  and  store  and  home,  the  people  ordered  their 
days  by  the  sound  of  that  whistle,  and  Adam  Ward 
had  been  very  proud  of  this  recognition  accorded 
him. 

Wearily,  as  one  exhausted  by  a  day  of  hard  labor, 
this  man  who  so  feared  the  power  of  the  Interpreter 
looked  up  at  his  daughter.  "I  wish  I  could  rest," 
he  said. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHILE  THE  PEOPLE  SLEEP 

THE  Interpreter's  hands  were  busy  with  his 
basket  weaving;  his  mind  seemingly  was 
occupied  more  with  other  things.  Frequently 
he  paused  to  look  up  from  his  work  and,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  Mill,  the  Flats  and  the  homes  on  the 
hillside,  apparently  considered  the  life  that  lay  before 
him  and  of  which  he  had  been  for  so  many  years  an 
interested  observer  and  student.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table,  silent  Billy  was  engaged  with  some 
thing  that  had  to  do  with  the  manufacturing  interests 
of  their  strange  partnership. 

When  Jake  Vodell  reached  the  landing  at  the  top 
of  the  stairway,  he  stopped  to  look  about  the  place 
with  curious,  alert  interest,  noting  with  quick 
glances  every  object  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the 
hut,  as  if  fixing  them  in  his  mind.  Satisfied  at  last 
by  the  thoroughness  of  his  inspection,  he  went 
toward  the  house,  but  his  step  on  the  board  walk 
made  no  sound.  At  the  outer  door  of  the  little  hut 
the  man  halted  again,  and  again  he  looked  quickly 
about  the  premises.  Apparently  there  was  no  one 
at  home.  Silently  he  entered  the  room  and  the  next 
instant  discovered  the  two  men  on  the  porch. 

The  Interpreter's  attention  at  the  moment  was 
fixed  upon  his  work  and  he  remained  unaware  of  the 
intruder's  presence,  while  Jake  Vodell,  standing  in  the 

92 


WHILE   THE   PEOPLE   SLEEP 

doorway,  regarded  the  old  basket  maker  curiously, 
with  a  contemptuous  smile  on  his  bearded  lips. 

But  Billy  Rand  saw  him.  A  moment  he  looked 
at  the  man  in  the  doorway  inquiringly,  as  he  would 
have  regarded  any  one  of  the  Interpreter's  many 
visitors;  then  the  deaf  and  dumb  man's  expression 
changed.  Glancing  quickly  at  his  still  unobserving 
companion,  he  caught  up  a  hatchet  that  lay  among 
the  tools  on  the  table  and,  with  a  movement  that  was 
not  unlike  the  guarding  action  of  a  huge  mastiff, 
rose  to  his  feet.  His  face  was  a  picture  of  animal 
rage;  his  teeth  were  bared,  his  eyes  gleamed,  his 
every  muscle  was  tense. 

The  man  in  the  doorway  was  evidently  no  coward, 
but  the  smile  vanished  from  his  heavy  face  and  his 
right  hand  went  quickly  inside  his  vest.  "  What's 
the  matter  with  you?"  he  said,  sharply,  as  Billy 
started  toward  him  with  deliberate  menace  in  his 
movement. 

At  the  sound  of  the  man's  voice  the  Interpreter 
looked  up.  One  glance  and  the  old  basket  maker 
caught  the  wheels  of  his  chair  and  with  a  quick, 
strong  movement  rolled  himself  between  the  two 
men — so  close  to  Billy  that  he  caught  his  defender 
by  the  arm.  Facing  his  enraged  companion,  the 
Interpreter  talked  to  him  rapidly  in  their  sign  lan 
guage  and  held  out  his  hand  for  the  hatchet.  The 
silent  Billy  reluctantly  surrendered  the  weapon  and 
drew  back  to  his  place  on  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
where  he  sat  glaring  at  the  stranger  in  angry  watch 
fulness. 

The  man  in  the  doorway  laughed  harshly.  "They 

93 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

told  me  I  would  find  a  helpless  old  cripple  up  here," 
he  said.  "I  think  you  are  pretty  well  protected  at 
that." 

Regarding  the  stranger  gravely,  the  Interpreter 
apologized  for  his  companion.  "You  can  see  that 
Billy  is  not  wholly  responsible,"  he  explained.  "  He 
is  little  more  than  a  child  mentally;  his  actions  are 
often  apparently  governed  wholly  by  that  strange 
instinct  which  seems  to  guide  the  animals.  He  is 
very  devoted  to  me." 

"He  seems  to  be  in  earnest  all  right,"  said  the 
stranger.  "He  is  a  husky  brute,  too." 

The  Interpreter,  regarding  the  man  inquiringly, 
almost  as  if  he  were  seeking  in  the  personality  of  his 
visitor  the  reason  for  Billy's  startling  conduct, 
replied,  simply,  "He  would  have  killed  you." 

With  a  shrug  of  his  thick  shoulders,  the  stranger 
uninvited  came  forward  and  helped  himself  to  a 
chair,  and,  with  the  air  of  one  introducing  a  person 
of  some  importance,  said,  "I  am  Vodell — Jake 
Vodell.  You  have  heard  of  me,  I  think,  heh?  " 

"Oh,  yes.  Indeed,  I  should  say  that  every  one 
has  heard  of  you,  Mr.  Vodell.  Your  work  has  given 
you  even  more  than  national  prominence,  I  believe." 

The  man  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  his  satisfac 
tion.  "I  am  known,  yes." 

"It  is  odd,"  said  the  Interpreter,  "but  your  face 
seems  familiar  to  me,  as  if  I  had  met  you  before." 

"You  have  heard  me  speak  somewhere,  maybe, 
heh?" 

"No,  it  cannot  be  that.  You  have  never  been  in 
Millsburgh  before,  have  you?" 

94 


WHILE  THE  PEOPLE  SLEEP 

"No." 

"  It  is  strange,"  mused  the  old  basket  maker. 

"It  is  the  papers,"  returned  Vodell  with  a  shrug. 
"Many  times  the  papers  have  my  picture — you 
must  have  seen." 

"Of  course,  that  is  it,"  exclaimed  the  Interpreter. 
"I  remember  now,  distinctly.  It  was  in  connection 
with  that  terrible  bomb  outrage  in " 

"Sir!"  interrupted  the  other  indignantly.  "Out 
rage — what  do  you  mean,  outrage?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  innocent  people  who  were 
killed  or  injured,"  returned  the  Interpreter,  calmly. 
"I  believe  you  were  also  prominent  in  those  western 
strikes  where  so  many  women  and  children  suffered, 
were  you  not?" 

The  labor  agitator  replied  with  the  exact  manner 
of  a  scientific  lecturer.  "It  is  unfortunate  that 
innocent  persons  must  sometimes  be  hurt  in  these 
affairs.  But  that  is  one  of  the  penalties  that  society 
must  pay  for  tolerating  the  conditions  that  make 
these  industrial  wars  necessary." 

"If  I  remember  correctly,  you  were  in  the  South, 
too,  at  the  time  that  mill  was  destroyed." 

"Oh,  yes,  they  had  me  in  jail  there.  But  that  was 
nothing.  I  have  many  such  experiences.  They  are 
to  me  very  commonplace.  Wherever  there  are  the 
poor  laboring  men  who  must  fight  for  then-  rights,  I 
go.  The  mines,  shops,  mills,  factories — it  is  all  the 
same  to  me.  I  go  wherever  I  can  serve  the  Cause. 
I  have  been  in  America  now  ten  years,  nearly 
eleven." 

"  You  are  not,  then,  a  citizen  of  this  country?  " 

95 


HELEN   OF    THE   OLD   HOUSE 

Jake  Vodell  laughed  contemptuously.  "Oh,  sure, 
I  am  a  citizen  of  this  country — this  great  America 
of  fools  and  cowards  that  talk  all  the  time  so  big 
about  freedom  and  equality,  while  the  capitalist 
money  hogs  hold  them  hi  slavery  and  rob  them  of 
the  property  they  create.  I  had  to  become  a  citizen 
when  the  war  came,  you  see,  or  they  would  have 
sent  me  away.  But  for  that  I  would  make  myself  a 
citizen  of  some  cannibal  country  first." 

The  old  basket  maker's  dark  eyes  blazed  with 
quick  fire  and  he  lifted  himself  with  sudden  strength 
to  a  more  erect  position  in  his  wheel  chair.  But 
when  he  spoke  his  deep  voice  was  calm  and  steady. 
"You  have  been  in  our  little  city  nearly  a  month, 
I  understand." 

"Just  about.  I  have  been  looking  around,  getting 
acquainted,  studying  the  situation.  One  must  be 
very  careful  to  know  the  right  men,  you  understand. 
It  pays,  I  find,  to  go  a  little  slow  at  first.  We  will 
go  fast  enough  later."  His  thick  lips  parted  in  a 
meaning  grin. 

The  Interpreter's  hands  gripped  the  wheels  of  his 
chair. 

"Everybody  tells  me  I  should  see  you,"  the  agita 
tor  continued.  "Everywhere  it  is  the  same.  They 
all  talk  of  the  Interpreter.  '  Go  to  the  Interpreter/ 
they  say.  When  they  told  me  that  this  great 
Interpreter  is  an  old  white-headed  fellow  without 
any  legs,  I  laughed  and  said,  'What  can  he  do  to 
help  the  laboring  man?  He  is  not  good  for  anything 
but  to  sit  in  a  wheel  chair  and  make  baskets  all 
the  day.  I  need  men.'  But  they  all  answer  the 

96 


WHILE   THE   PEOPLE   SLEEP 

same  thing,  'Go  and  see  the  Interpreter.'     And  so 
I  am  here." 

When  the  Interpreter  was  silent,  his  guest 
demanded,  harshly,  "They  are  all  right,  heh?  You 
are  a  friend  to  the  workingman?  Tell  me,  is  it  so?" 

The  old  basket  maker  spoke  with  quiet  dignity. 
"For  twenty-five  years  Millsburgh  has  been  my 
home,  and  the  Millsburgh  people  have  been  my 
friends.  You,  sir,  have  been  here  less  than  a  month; 
I  have  known  you  but  a  few  minutes." 

Jake  Vodell  laughed  understandingly.  "Oh-ho, 
so  that  is  it?  Maybe  you  like  to  see  my  credentials 
before  we  talk?" 

The  Interpreter  held  up  a  hand  in  protest.  "  Your 
reputation  is  sufficient,  Mr.  Vodell." 

The  man  acknowledged  the  compliment — as  he 
construed  it — with  a  shrug  and  a  pleased  laugh. 
"And  all  that  is  said  of  you  by  the  laboring  class  in 
your  little  city  is  sufficient,"  he  returned.  "  Even 
the  men  in  Mclver's  factory  tell  me  you  are  the  best 
friend  that  labor  has  ever  had  in  this  place."  He 
paused  expectantly. 

The  man  in  the  wheel  chair  bowed  his  head. 

"And  then,"  continued  Jake  Vodell,  with  a  frown 
of  displeasure,  "when  I  come  to  see  you,  to  ask  some 
questions  about  things  that  I  should  know,  what  do 
I  hear?  The  daughter  of  this  old  slave-driver  and 
robber — this  capitalist  enemy  of  the  laboring  class — 
Adam  Ward,  she  comes  also  to  see  this  Interpreter 
who  is  such  a  friend  of  the  people." 

The  Interpreter  laughed.  "And  Sam  Whaley's 
children,  they  come  too." 

97 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

"Oh,  yes,  that  is  better.  I  know  Sam  Whaley. 
He  is  a  good  man  who  will  be  a  great  help  to  me. 
But  I  do  not  understand  this  woman  business." 

"I  have  known  Miss  Ward  ever  since  she  was 
born;  I  worked  hi  the  Mill  at  the  same  bench  with 
her  father  and  Peter  Martin,"  said  the  man  hi  the 
wheel  chair,  with  quiet  dignity. 

"I  see.  It  is  not  so  bad  sometimes  to  have  a  friend 
or  two  among  these  millionaires  when  there  is  no 
danger  of  it  being  misunderstood.  But  this  man, 
who  was  once  a  workman  and  who  deserted  his 
class — this  traitor,  her  father — does  he  also  call  on 
you,  Mr.  Interpreter?" 

"Once  in  a  great  while,"  answered  the  Interpreter. 

Jake  Vodell  laughed  knowingly.  "When  he  wants 
something,  heh?"  Then,  with  an  air  of  taking  up 
the  real  business  of  his  visit  to  the  little  hut  on  the 
cliff,  he  said,  "Suppose  now  you  tell  me  something 
about  this  son  of  Adam  Ward.  You  have  known 
hun  since  he  was  a  boy  too — the  same  as  the  girl?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Interpreter,  "I  have  known  John 
Ward  all  his  life." 

Something  in  the  old  basket  maker's  voice  made 
Jake  Vodell  look  at  hun  sharply  and  the  agitator's 
black  brows  were  scowling  as  he  said,  "So — you  are 
friends  with  him,  too,  I  guess,  heh?" 

"I  am,  sir;  and  so  is  Captain  Charlie  Martin,  who 
is  the  head  of  our  Mill  workers'  union,  as  you  may 
have  heard." 

"Exactly.  That  is  why  I  ask.  So  many  of  the 
poor  fools  who  slave  for  this  son  of  Adam  Ward  in 
the  Mill  say  that  he  is  such  a  fine  man — so  kind. 

98 


WHILE  THE  PEOPLE  SLEEP 

Oh,  wonderful!  Bah!  When  was  the  wolf  whelped 
that  would  be  kind  to  a  rabbit?  You  shall  tell  me 
now  about  the  friendship  between  this  wolf  cub  of 
the  capitalist  Mill  owner  and  this  poor  rabbit,  son  of 
the  workman  Peter  Martin  who  has  all  his  life  been 
a  miserable  slave  in  the  Mill.  They  were  in  the 
army  together,  heh?" 

"They  enlisted  in  the  same  company  when  the 
first  call  came  and  were  comrades  all  through  the 
worst  of  the  fighting  in  France." 

"And  before  that,  they  were  friends,  heh?" 

"They  had  been  chums  as  boys,  when  the  family 
lived  in  the  old  house  next  door  to  the  Martins. 
But  during  the  years  that  John  was  away  in  school 
and  college  Adam  moved  his  family  to  the  place  on 
the  hill  where  they  live  now.  When  John  was 
graduated  and  came  home  to  stay,  he  naturally  found 
his  friends  in  another  circle.  His  intimacy  with 
Pete  Martin's  boy  was  not  renewed — until  the  war." 

"Exactly,"  grunted  Jake  Vodell.  "And  how  did 
Adam  Ward  like  it  that  his  boy  should  go  to  war? 
Not  much,  I  think.  It  was  all  right  for  the  work 
man's  boy  to  go;  but  the  Mill  owner's  son — that  was 
different,  heh?  " 

There  was  a  note  of  pride  in  the  Interpreter's 
voice,  as  he  answered,  "Adam  was  determined  that 
the  boy  should  not  go  at  all,  even  if  he  were  drafted. 
But  John  said  that  it  was  bad  enough  to  let  other 
men  work  to  feed  and  clothe  him  in  ordinary  tunes 
of  peace  without  letting  them  do  his  fighting  for  him 
as  well." 

"This  Adam  Ward's  son  said  that!"  exclaimed 

99 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

the  agitator.  "Huh — it  was  for  the  effect — a 
grand-stand  play." 

"He  enlisted,"  retorted  the  Interpreter.  "And 
when  his  father  would  have  used  his  influence  to 
secure  some  sort  of  commission  with  an  easy  berth, 
John  was  more  indignant  than  ever.  He  said  if  he 
ever  wore  shoulder  straps  they  would  be  a  recogni 
tion  of  his  service  to  his  country  and  not,  as  he  put  it, 
a  pretty  gift  from  a  rich  father.  So  he  and  Charlie 
Martin  both  enlisted  as  privates,  and,  as  it  happened, 
on  the  same  day.  Under  such  circumstances  it  was 
quite  as  natural  that  their  old  friendship  should  be 
reestablished  as  that  they  should  have  drifted  apart 
under  the  influence  of  Adam  Ward's  prosperity." 

Jake  Vodell  laughed  disagreeably.  "And  then 
this  wonderful  son  of  your  millionaire  Mill  owner 
comes  out  of  the  war  and  the  army  exactly  as  he 
went  in,  nothing  but  a  private — not  even  a  medal — 
heh?  But  this  workman  from  the  Mill,  he  comes 
back  a  captain  with  a  distinguished  service  medal? 
I  think  maybe  Private  Ward's  father  and  mother 
and  sister  liked  that — no?" 

Disregarding  these  comments,  the  Interpreter 
said,  "Now  that  I  have  answered  your  questions 
about  the  friendship  of  John  Ward  and  Charlie 
Martin,  may  I  ask  just  why  you  are  so  much  inter 
ested  in  the  matter?" 

The  agitator  gazed  at  the  man  in  the  wheel  chair 
with  an  expression  of  incredulous  amazement.  "Is 
it  possible  you  do  not  understand?"  he  demanded. 
"And  you  such  a  friend  to  the  workingman!  But 
wait — one  more  thing,  then  I  will  answer  you.  This 

100 


WHILE   THE   PEOPLE   SLEEP 

daughter  of  Adam  Ward — she  is  also  good  friends 
with  her  old  playmate  who  is  now  Captain  Martin, 
is  she?  The  workman  goes  sometimes  to  the  big  house 
on  the  hill  to  see  his  millionaire  friends,  does  he?  " 

The  Interpreter  answered,  coldly,  "I  can't  dis 
cuss  Miss  Ward  with  you,  sir." 

"Oh-ho!  And  now  I  will  answer  your  question 
as  to  my  interest.  This  John  Ward  is  already  a 
boss  in  the  Mill.  His  father,  everybody  tells  me, 
is  not  well.  Any  tune  now  the  old  man  may  retire 
from  the  business  and  the  son  will  have  his  place 
as  general  manager.  He  will  be  the  owner.  The 
friendship  between  these  two  men  is  not  good — 
because  Charlie  Martin  is  the  leader  of  the  union  and 
there  can  be  no  such  friendship  between  a  leader  of 
the  laboring  class  and  one  of  the  employer  class 
without  great  loss  to  our  Cause.  You  will  see. 
These  rich  owners  of  the  Mill,  they  will  flatter  and 
make  much  of  this  poor  workman  captain  because  of 
his  influence  among  the  people  who  slave  for  them, 
and  so  any  movement  to  secure  for  the  workmen 
their  rights  will  be  defeated.  Do  you  understand 
now,  Mister  basket  maker,  heh?" 

The  Interpreter  bowed  his  head. 

The  agitator  continued.  "Already  I  find  it  very 
hard  to  accomplish  much  with  this  Mill  workers' 
union.  Except  for  our  friend,  Sam  Whaley,  and  a 
few  others,  the  fools  are  losing  then"  class  loyalty. 
Their  fighting  spirit  is  breaking  down.  It  will  not 
do,  I  tell  you.  At  the  Mclver  factory  it  is  all  very 
different.  It  will  be  easy  there.  The  workingmen 
show  the  proper  spirit — they  will  be  ready  when  I 

101 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

give  the  word.  But  I  am  not  pleased  with  the  situ 
ation  in  this  Mill  of  Adam  Ward's.  This  fine 
friendship  between  the  son  of  the  owner  and  the  son 
of  the  workman  must  stop.  Friendship — bah! — 
it  is  a  pretense,  a  sham,  a  trick." 

The  man's  manner,  when  he  thus  passed  judgment 
upon  the  comradeship  of  John  and  Charlie,  was  that 
of  an  absolute  monarch  who  was  righteously  annoyed 
at  some  manifestation  of  disloyalty  among  his  sub 
jects.  His  voice  was  harsh  with  the  authority  of  one 
whose  mandates  are  not  to  be  questioned.  His 
countenance  was  dark  with  scowling  displeasure. 

"And  you,  too,  my  friend,"  he  went  on,  glaring 
from  under  his  black  brows  at  the  old  man  in  the 
wheel  chair,  "you  will  be  wise  if  you  accept  my 
suggestion  and  be  a  little  careful  yourself.  It  is  not 
so  bad,  perhaps,  this  young  woman  coming  to  see 
you,  but  I  am  told  that  her  brother  also  comes  to 
visit  with  the  Interpreter.  And  this  leader  of  the 
Mill  workers'  union,  Charlie  Martin,  he  comes, 
too.  Everybody  says  you  are  the  best  friend  of  the 
working  people.  But  I  tell  you  there  cannot  be 
friendship  between  the  employer  class  and  the  labor 
ing  class — it  must  be  between  them  always  war. 
So,  Mr.  Interpreter,  you  must  look  out.  The  time 
is  not  far  when  the  people  of  Millsburgh  will  know 
for  sure  who  is  a  friend  to  the  labor  class  and  who  is 
a  friend  to  the  employer  class." 

The  Interpreter  received  this  warning  from  Jake 
Vodell  exactly  as  he  had  listened  to  Bobby  Whaley's 
boyish  talk  about  blowing  up  the  castle  of  Adam 
Ward  on  the  hill. 

102 


WHILE   THE  PEOPLE   SLEEP 

Rising  abruptly,  the  agitator,  without  so  much  as 
a  by-your-leave,  went  into  the  house  where  he 
proceeded  to  examine  the  books  and  periodicals  on 
the  table.  Billy  started  from  his  place  to  follow, 
but  the  Interpreter  shook  his  head  forbiddingly, 
and  while  Jake  Vodell  passed  on  to  the  farther  corner 
of  the  room  and  stood  looking  over  the  well  filled 
shelves  of  the  Interpreter's  library,  the  old  basket 
maker  talked  to  his  companion  in  their  silent  lan 
guage. 

When  this  foreign  defender  of  the  rights  of  the 
American  laboring  class  returned  to  the  porch  he  was 
smiling  approval.  "Good!"  he  said.  "You  are  all 
right,  I  think.  No  man  could  read  the  papers  and 
books  that  you  have  there,  and  not  be  the  friend  of 
freedom  and  a  champion  of  the  people  against  their 
capitalist  masters.  We  will  have  a  great  victory 
for  the  Cause  in  Millsburgh,  comrade.  You  shall  see. 
It  is  too  bad  that  you  do  not  have  your  legs  so  that 
you  could  take  an  active  part  with  me  in  the  work 
that  I  will  do." 

The  Interpreter  smiled.  "If  you  do  not  mind, 
I  would  like  to  know  something  of  your  plans.  That 
is,"  he  added,  courteously,  "so  far  as  you  are  at 
liberty  to  tell  me." 

"Certainly  I  will  tell  you,  comrade,"  returned  the 
other,  heartily.  "Who  can  say — it  may  be  that 
you  will  be  of  some  small  use  to  me  after  all."  His 
eyes  narrowed  slyly.  "It  may  be  that  for  these 
Mill  owners  to  come  to  you  here  in  your  little  hut  is 
perhaps  not  so  bad  when  we  think  about  it  a  little 
more,  heh?  The  daughter  of  Adam  Ward  might 

103 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

be  led  to  say  many  foolish  little  things  that  to  a 
clever  man  like  you  would  be  understood.  Even 
the  brother,  the  manager  of  the  Mill — well,  I  have 
known  men  like  him  to  talk  of  themselves  and  then- 
plans  rather  freely  at  times  when  they  thought  there 
was  no  harm.  And  what  possible  harm  could  there 
be  in  a  poor  crippled  old  basket  maker  like  you, 
heh?"  The  man  laughed  as  though  his  jest  were  per 
fectly  understood  and  appreciated  by  his  host — as, 
indeed,  it  was. 

"But  about  my  plans  for  this  campaign  in  Mills- 
burgh,"  he  went  on.  "You  know  the  great  brother 
hood  that  I  represent  and  you  are  familiar  with  their 
teachings  of  course."  He  gestured  comprehensively 
toward  the  Interpreter's  library. 

The  man  in  the  wheel  chair  silently  nodded 
assent. 

Jake  Vodell  continued.  "I  am  come  to  Mills- 
burgh,  as  I  go  everywhere,  in  the  interests  of  our 
Cause.  It  is  my  experience  that  I  can  always  work 
J>est  through  the  unions." 

The  Interpreter  interrupted.  "Oh,  one  of  our 
Millsburgh  unions  sent  for  you  then?  I  did  not 
know." 

The  agitator  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently. 
"No — no — I  was  not  sent  for.  I  was  sent.  I  am 
here  because  it  was  reported  that  there  was  a  good 
opportunity  to  advance  the  Cause.  No  union  brings 
me.  I  come  to  the  unions,  to  work  with  them  for 
the  freedom  of  the  laboring  class." 

"And  of  what  union  are  you  a  member,  sir?" 
asked  the  Interpreter. 

104 


WHILE   THE   PEOPLE   SLEEP 

"Me!  Ha!  I  am  not  a  member  of  any  of  your 
silly  American  unions!  I  belong  to  that  greater 
union,  if  you  please,  which  embraces  them  all.  But 
your  unions  know  and  receive  me  as  a  leader  because 
of  the  work  that  I  do  for  all.  Our  Cause  is  the  cause 
of  the  working  people  of  America,  as  it  is  the  cause 
of  the  laboring  classes  in  England,  and  France, 
and  Russia,  and  Germany,  and  everywhere  in  the 
world." 

Again  the  old  basket  maker  bowed  his  silent  assent. 

11  You  have,  in  this  place,"  continued  the  agitator, 
"one  strong  union  of  the  Mill  workers.  In  the  other 
shops  and  factories  and  in  the  trades  it  is  like 
Mclver's  factory,  the  men  are  not  so  well  organized." 

Again  the  Interpreter  interrupted.  "The  work 
ing  people  of  Millsburgh,  generally,  receive  the  high 
est  wage  paid  anywhere  in  the  country,  do  they  not?  " 

"Ah,  but  surely  that  is  not  the  question,  comrade. 
Surely  you  understand  that  all  the  laboring  people 
of  America  must  be  united  in  one  brotherhood  with 
all  the  other  countries  of  the  world,  so  that  they,  the 
producers  of  wealth,  shall  be  able  to  take  possession 
of,  and  operate,  the  industries  of  this  country,  and 
finally  take  this  government  away  from  the  capitalist 
class  who  are  now  the  real  owners  of  what  you  call 
your  'land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave.' 
Bah!  You  fool  Americans  do  not  know  the  first 
meaning  of  the  word  freedom.  You  are  a  nation  of 
slaves.  If  you  were  as  brave  as  you  sing,  you  very 
soon  would  be  your  own  masters." 

"And  your  plan  for  Millsburgh?"  asked  the  Inter 
preter,  calmly. 

105 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

"It  is  simple.  But  for  this  John  Ward  and  his 
friendship  with  Charlie  Martin  that  so  deceives 
everybody,  it  will  be  easy.  The  first  step  hi  my 
campaign  here  will  be  to  call  out  the  employees  of 
Mclver's  factory  on  a  strike.  I  start  with  Mclver's 
workmen  because  his  well-known  position  against 
the  laboring  class  will  make  it  easy  for  me  to  win 
the  sympathy  of  the  public  for  the  strikers." 

"But,"  said  the  Interpreter,  "the  factory  union  is 
working  under  an  agreement  with  Mclver." 

The  self-appointed  savior  of  the  American  working 
people  shrugged  his  heavy  shoulders  disdainfully. 
"That  is  no  matter — it  is  always  easy  to  find  a 
grievance.  When  the  factory  men  have  walked  out, 
then  will  come  the  sympathetic  strike  of  your  strong 
Mill  workers'  union.  All  the  other  labor  organiza 
tions  will  be  forced  to  join  us,  whether  they  wish  to 
or  not.  I  shall  have  all  Millsburgh  so  that  not  a 
wheel  can  turn  anywhere.  The  mills — the  factories 
— the  builders — the  bakeries — everything  will  be 
in  our  hands  and  then,  my  comrade,  then!" 

The  man  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  looking  out  over 
the  life  that  lay  within  view  from  the  Interpreter's 
balcony-porch,  as  if  possessed  with  the  magnitude  of 
the  power  that  would  be  his  when  this  American 
community  should  be  given  into  his  hand. 

Silent,  watchful  Billy  stirred  uneasily. 

The  Interpreter,  touching  his  companion's  arm, 
shook  his  head. 

Jake  Vodell,  deep  in  his  ambitious  dream,  did  not 
notice.  "The  time  is  coming,  comrade,"  he  said, 
' '  and  it  is  nearer  than  the  fool  Americans  think,  when 

106 


WHILE   THE   PEOPLE   SLEEP 

the  labor  class  will  rise  in  their  might  and  take  what 
is  theirs.  My  campaign  here  in  Millsburgh,  you 
must  know,  is  only  one  of  the  hundreds  of  little  fires 
that  we  are  lighting  all  over  this  country.  The 
American  people,  they  are  asleep.  They  have 
drugged  themselves  with  their  own  talk  of  how  safe 
and  strong  and  prosperous  they  are.  Bah!  There 
is  no  people  so  easy  to  fool.  They  think  we  strike 
for  recognition  of  some  union,  or  that  it  is  for  higher 
wages,  or  some  other  local  grievance.  Bah!  We 
use  for  an  excuse  anything  that  will  give  us  a  hold  on 
the  labor  class.  These  silly  unions,  they  are  noth 
ing  in  themselves.  But  we — we  can  use  them  in  the 
Cause.  And  so  everywhere — North,  South,  East, 
West — we  light  our  little  fires.  And  when  we  are 
ready — Boom!  One  big  blaze  will  come  so  quick 
from  all  points  at  once  that  it  will  sweep  the  country 
before  the  sleeping  fools  wake  up.  And  then — then, 
comrade,  you  shall  see  what  will  happen  to  your 
capitalist  vultures  and  your  employer  swine,  who 
have  so  long  grown  fat  on  the  strength  of  the  work 
ing  class." 

A  moment  longer  he  stood  as  if  lost  in  the  con 
templation  of  the  glory  of  that  day,  when,  in  the 
triumph  of  his  leadership,  the  people  of  the  nation 
he  so  despised  and  hated  would  rise  in  bloody  revolu 
tion  against  their  own  government  and  accept  in 
its  stead  the  dictatorship  of  lawless  aliens  who  pro 
fess  allegiance  to  no  one  but  their  own  godless  selves. 

Then  he  turned  back  to  the  Interpreter  with  a 
command,  "You,  comrade,  shall  keep  me  informed, 
heh?  From  these  people  of  our  enemy  class  who 

107 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

come  here  to  your  hut,  you  will  learn  the  things  I 
will  want  to  know.  I  shall  come  to  you  from  time 
to  time,  but  not  too  often.  But,  you  must  see  that 
your  watchdog  there  has  better  manners  for  me, 
heh?"  He  laughed  and  was  gone. 

At  the  club  that  evening,  Jim  Mclver  sat  with  a 
group  of  men  discussing  the  industrial  situation. 

"They're  fixing  for  a  fight  all  right,"  said  one. 
"What  do  you  think,  Jim?" 

The  factory  owner  answered,  "They  can  have  a 
fight  any  time  they  want  it.  Nothing  but  a  period 
of  starvation  will  ever  put  the  laboring  class  back 
where  it  belongs  and  the  sooner  we  get  it  over  the 
better  it  will  be  for  business  conditions  all  around." 

In  the  twilight  dust  and  grime  of  the  Flats,  a 
woman  sat  on  the  doorstep  of  a  wretched  house. 
Her  rounded  shoulders  slouched  wearily — her  tired 
hands  were  folded  in  her  lap.  She  stared  with  dull, 
listless  eyes  at  the  squalid  homes  of  her  neighbors 
across  the  street.  The  Interpreter  had  described 
the  woman  to  Helen — "a  girl  with  fine  instincts  for 
the  best  things  of  life  and  a  capacity  for  great  hap 
piness." 

In  a  room  back  of  a  pool  hall  of  ill-repute,  the  man 
Jake  Vodell  sat  in  conference  with  three  others  of  his 
brotherhood.  A  peculiar  knock  sounded  at  the  door. 
Vodell  drew  the  bolt.  Sam  Whaley  entered.  "My 
kids  told  me  you  wanted  me,"  said  the  workman. 

108 


WHILE   THE   PEOPLE   SLEEP 

Long  into  the  night,  on  the  balcony  porch  of  the 
hut  on  the  cliff,  John  Ward  and  Captain  Charlie 
Martin  talked  with  the  Interpreter.  As  they  talked, 
they  watched  the  lights  of  the  Mill,  the  Flats,  the 
business  streets,  and  the  homes. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  MILL 

IT  was  pay  day  at  the  Mill. 
No  one,  unless  he,  at  some  period  hi  his  life, 
has  been  absolutely  dependent  upon  the  wages 
of  his  daily  toil,  can  appreciate  a  pay  day.     To 
experience  properly  the  thrill  of  a  pay  day  one  must 
have  no  other  source  of  income.     The  pay  check 
must  be  the  only  barrier  between  one  and  actual 
hunger.     Bobby  and  Maggie  Whaley  knew  the  full 
meaning  of  pay  day.     Then:  mother  measured  life 
itself  by  that  event. 

Throughout  the  great  industrial  hive  that  morning 
there  was  an  electrical  thrill  of  anticipation.  Smiles 
were  more  frequent;  jests  were  passed  with  greater 
zest;  men  moved  with  a  freer  step,  a  more  joyous 
swing.  The  very  machinery  seemed  in  some  incom 
prehensible  way  to  be  animated  with  the  spirit  of 
the  workmen,  while  the  droning,  humrning,  roaring 
voice  of  the  Mill  was  unquestionably  keyed  to  a 
happier  note.  In  the  offices  among  the  book 
keepers,  clerks,  stenographers  and  the  department 
heads,  the  same  brightening  of  the  atmosphere  was 
noticeable.  Nor  was  the  spirit  of  the  event  confined 
to  the  Mill  itself;  throughout  the  entire  city — in  the 
stores  and  banks,  the  post  office,  the  places  of  amuse 
ment,  in  the  homes  on  the  hillside  and  in  the  Flats — 
pay  day  at  the  Mill  was  the  day  of  days. 

110 


THE   MILL 


It  was  an  hour,  perhaps,  after  the  whistle  had 
started  the  big  plant  for  the  afternoon. 

John  Ward  was  deep  in  the  consideration  of  some 
business  of  moment  with  the  superintendent,  George 
'Parsons — a  sturdy,  square-jawed,  steady-eyed,  mid 
dle-aged  man,  who  had  come  up  from  the  ranks  by 
the  sheer  force  of  his  natural  ability. 

There  is  nothing  at  all  unusual  about  John  Ward. 
He  is  simply  a  good  specimen  of  the  more  intelligent 
class  of  our  young  American  manhood,  with,  it 
might  be,  a  more  than  average  mind  for  business, 
which  he  had  inherited  from  his  father.  He  is,  in 
short,  a  f air  type  of  the  healthy,  clean-living,  straight- 
thinking,  broad-gauged,  big-hearted  young  citizen 
such  as  one  may  find  by  the  hundreds  of  thousands 
in  the  many  fields  of  our  national  activities.  In 
our  arts  and  industries,  in  our  banks  and  commercial 
houses,  hi  our  factories  and  newspapers,  on  our 
farms  and  in  our  professions,  hi  our  educational 
institutions,  among  our  writers  and  scientists,  in  our 
great  transportation  organizations,  and  in  the  busi 
ness  of  our  government,  our  John  Wards  are  to  be 
found,  ready  to  take  the  places  left  to  them  by  the 
passing  of  then-  fathers. 

Since  his  return  from  the  war,  the  young  man  had 
devoted  himself  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  great  pur 
pose  to  a  practical  study  of  his  father's  big  industrial 
plant.  Adam  still  held  the  general  management, 
but  his  son  knew  that  the  time  must  come  when  the 
responsibility  of  that  position  would  fall  to  him. 

With  John's  inherited  executive  ability  and  his 
111 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

comradeship,  plus  the  driving  force  of  his  fixed  and 
determined  purpose,  it  was  not  strange  that  he  so 
quickly  gained  the  loyal  support  and  cooperation  of 
his  father's  long-trained  assistants.  His  even- 
tempered  friendliness  and  ready  recognition  of  his 
dependence  upon  his  fellow  workers  won  their  love. 
His  industry,  his  clear-headed,  open-minded  con 
sideration  of  the  daily  problems  presented,  with  his 
quick  grasp  of  essential  details,  commanded  their 
admiring  respect.  Under  the  circumstance  of  his 
father's  nervous  trouble  and  the  consequent  enforced 
absence  of  Adam  from  his  office  for  more  and  more 
frequent  periods,  it  was  inevitable  that  John,  by 
common,  if  silent,  consent  of  the  executive  heads, 
should  be  advanced  more  and  more  toward  the 
general  manager's  desk. 

The  superintendent,  gathering  up  his  blue  prints 
and  memoranda,  arose.  "And  will  that  be  all, 
sir?"  he  asked,  with  a  smile. 

Nearly  every  one  smiled  when  he  finished  an  inter 
view  with  Adam  Ward's  son;  probably  because 
John  himself  nearly  always  smiled  when  he  ended  a 
consultation  or  gave  an  order. 

"  That's  all  from  my  side,  George,"  he  said,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  and  looking  up  at  the  superintendent 
in  his  open,  straightforward  way  that  so  surely 
invited  confidence  and  trust.  "Have  you  anything 
else  on  your  mind?" 

"Nary  a  thing,  John,"  returned  the  older  man, 
and  with  a  parting  "so  long"  he  started  toward  the 
door  that  opened  into  the  Mill. 

112 


With  that  smile  of  genuine  affection  still  lingering 
on  his  face,  John  watched  the  sturdy  back  of  the  old 
superintendent  as  if,  for  the  moment,  his  thoughts 
had  swung  from  George  Parsons'  work  to  George 
Parsons  himself. 

The  superintendent  opened  the  door  and  was 
about  to  step  out  when  he  stopped  suddenly  and  with 
a  quick,  decided  movement  drew  back  into  the  room 
and  closed  the  door  again.  To  the  young  man  in  the 
other  end  of  the  big  office  it  looked  as  though  the 
superintendent  had  seen  something  that  startled 
him.  Another  moment  and  George  was  again  bend 
ing  over  John's  desk. 

"The  old  man  is  out  there,  John." 

"What!  Father!  Why  I  had  no  idea  that  he 
was  coming  down  to-day."  A  look  of  anxiety  came 
into  the  frank  gray  eyes.  "He  has  not  been  so  well 
lately,  George.  I  wonder  why  he  didn't  come  to  the 
office  first  as  usual." 

"He  sometimes  slips  in  back  that  way,  you  know," 
returned  the  superintendent. 

"He  really  ought  not  to  be  here,"  said  the  young 
man.  "I  wish "  He  hesitated. 

"He's  generally  in  a  state  of  mind  when  he  comes 
in  like  that,"  said  George.  "You're  not  needing  a 
goat,  are  you,  boy?" 

John  smiled.  "There's  not  a  thing  wrong  in  the 
plant  so  far  as  I  know,  George." 

"I  don't  know  of  anything  either,"  returned  the 
other,  "but  we  may  not  know  all  the  way.  There's 
one  thing  sure,  the  old  man  ought  not  to  be  wander 
ing  through  the  works  alone.  There's  some  of  those 

113 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

rough-necks  would — well  it's  too  darned  easy, 
sometimes,  for  accidents  to  happen,  do  you  see? 
I'll  rustle  out  there  and  stick  around  convenient  like. 
You'd  better  stay  where  you  are  as  if  you  didn't 
know  he  was  on  the  job.  And  remember,  son,  if 
you  should  need  a  goat,  I'm  qualified.  If  anything 
has  happened — whether  it  has  or  he  only  thinks  it 
has — just  you  blame  it  on  to  old  George.  I'll  under 
stand." 

The  work  was  at  the  height  of  its  swing  when  burly 
Max  Gardner  paused  a  second  to  straighten  his 
back  and  wipe  the  sweat  from  his  sooty  face.  As  he 
stooped  again  to  his  heavy  task,  he  said  to  his  mates 
in  a  voice  that  rumbled  up  from  the  depths  of  his 
naked,  hairy  chest,  "Get  a  gate  on  y' — get  a  gate 
on  y' — y'  rough-necks.  'Tis  th'  boss  that's  a- 
lookin'  'round  to  see  who  he'll  be  tyin'  th'  can  to 
next." 

The  men  laughed. 

"There's  one  thing  sure,"  said  Bill  Connley,  who 
looked  as  though  his  body  were  built  of  rawhide 
stretched  over  a  framework  of  steel,  "when  John 
Ward  ties  the  can  to  a  man,  that  man  knows  what 
'tis  for.  When  he  give  Jim  Billings  his  time  last 
week,  he  says  to  him,  says  he,  'Jim,  I'm  sorry  for 
y'.  Not  because  I'm  fir'in'  y','  says  he,  'but  because 
y're  such  a  loafer  that  y're  no  good  to  yerself  nor  to 
anybody  else — y're  a  disgrace  to  the  Mill,'  says  he, 
'and  to  every  honest  working  man  in  it.'  An'  Jim, 
he  never  give  a  word  back — just  hung  his  head  an' 

114 


THE   MILL 


got  out  of  sight  like  a  dog  with  his  tail  between  his 
legs  after  a  good  swift  kick." 

"An7  th'  young  boss  was  right  at  that,"  com 
mented  sturdy  Scot  Walters.  "Jim  was  a  good 
man  when  he  was  new  on  the  job,  but  since  he  got 
the  wrinkles  out  of  his  belly,  he's  been  killin'  more 
time  than  any  three  men  in  the  works." 

"Pass  me  that  pinch  bar,  Bill,"  called  Dick  Grant 
from  the  other  side.  As  he  reached  for  the  tool, 
his  glance  took  in  the  figure  that  had  caught  the  eye 
of  big  Max.  "Holy  Mike!"  he  exclaimed,  "  'tis 
the  old  man  himself." 

Every  man  in  the  group  except  Max  turned  his 
face  toward  Adam  Ward,  who  stood  some  distance 
away,  and  a  very  different  tone  marked  the  voice  of 
Bill  Connley  as  he  said,  "Now  what  d'ye  think  brings 
that  danged  old  pirate  here  to  look  us  over  this  day?  " 

"Who  the  devil  cares?"  growled  Scot,  as,  with  an 
air  of  sullen  indifference,  they  turned  again  to  their 
work. 

No  one  seeing  the  Mill  owner  as  he  viewed  his  pos 
sessions  that  day  could  have  believed  that  this  was 
the  wretched  creature  that  Helen  had  watched  from 
the  arbor.  Away  from  the  scenes  of  his  business  life 
Adam  Ward  was  like  some  poor,  nervous,  half- 
insane  victim  of  the  drug  habit.  At  the  Mill,  he 
was  that  same  drug  fiend  under  the  influence  of 
his  "  dope." 

His  manner  was  calm  and  steady,  with  no  sign  of 
nervousness  or  lack  of  control.  His  gray  face — 
which,  in  a  way,  was  the  face  of  a  student — gave  no 

115 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

hint  of  the  thoughts  and  emotions  that  stirred  within 
him.  As  he  looked  about  the  great  industrial 
institution  to  which  he  had  given  himself,  body, 
mind  and  soul,  all  the  best  years  of  his  life,  his 
countenance  was  as  expressionless  as  the  very 
machines  of  iron  and  steel  and  wood  among  which 
he  moved — a  silent,  lonely,  brooding  spirit.  No 
glow  of  worthy  pride  in  the  work  of  his  manhood, 
no  gleam  of  friendly  comradeship  for  his  fellow  work 
men,  no  joy  of  his  kinship  with  the  great  humanity 
that  was  here  personified  shone  in  his  eyes  or  ani 
mated  his  presence.  Cold  and  calculating,  he  looked 
upon  the  human  element  in  the  Mill  exactly  as  he 
looked  upon  the  machinery.  Men  cost  him  a 
certain  definite  sum  of  dollars;  they  must  be  made 
to  return  to  him  a  certain  increase  in  definite  dollars 
on  that  cost.  The  living  bodies,  minds,  and  souls 
that,  moving  here  and  there  in  the  haze  of  smoke  and 
steam  and  dust,  vitalized  the  inanimate  machinery 
and  gave  life  and  intelligent  purpose  to  the  whole, 
were  no  more  to  him  than  one  of  his  adding  machines 
in  the  office  that,  mechanically  obedient  to  his 
touch,  footed  up  long  columns  of  dollars  and  cents. 
It  is  not  strange  that  the  humanity  of  the  Mill 
should  respond  to  the  spirit  of  its  owner  with  the 
spirit  of  his  adding  machines  and  give  to  him  his 
totals  of  dollars  and  cents — with  nothing  more. 

Quickly  the  feeling  of  Adam  Ward's  presence 
spread  throughout  the  busy  plant.  Smiling  faces 
grew  grim  and  sullen.  In  the  place  of  good-natured 
jest  and  cheerful  laugh  there  were  muttered  curses 

116 


THE   MILL 


and  contemptuous  epithets.  The  very  atmosphere 
seemed  charged  with  antagonism  and  rebellious 
hatred. 

"Wad  ye  look  at  it?"  said  one.  "And  they  tell 
me  that  white-faced  old  devil  used  to  work  along 
side  of  Pete  and  the  Interpreter  at  that  same  bench 
where  Pete's  a-workin'  yet." 

"He  did  that,"  said  another.  "I  was  a  kid  in  the 
Mill  at  the  tune;  'twas  before  he  got  hold  of  his  new 
process." 

"Pete  Martin  is  a  better  man  than  Adam  Ward 
ever  was  or  will  be  at  that — process  or  no  process," 
said  a  third,  while'every  man  within  hearing  endorsed 
the  sentiment  with  a  hearty  word,  an  oath  or  a 
pointed  comment. 

"But  the  young  boss  is  a  different  sort,  though," 
came  from  the  first  speaker. 

"He  is  that!" 

"The  boy's  all  right." 

"John's  a  good  man." 

A  workman  with  a  weak  face  and  shifty  eyes 
paused  in  passing  to  say,  "You'll  find  out  how  differ 
ent  the  boy  is  onct  he's  put  to  the  test.  He's  the 
same  breed,  an'  it's  just  like  Jake  Vodell  said  last 
night,  there  ain't  one  of  the  greedy  capitalist  class 
that  wouldn't  nail  a  laboring  man  to  the  cross  of 
their  damnable  system  of  slavery  if  they  dast." 

A  silence  fell  over  the  group. 

Then  a  dry  -voice  drawled,  "Jake  Vodell  ain't 
never  overworked  himself  as  anybody  knows  of,  has 
he?  As  for  you,  Sam  Whaley,  I'm  thinkin'  it 
would  take  somethin'  more  than  a  crucifyin'  to  get 

117 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

much  profit  out  of  you,  the  way  you  mooch  around." 
There  was  a  general  laugh  at  this  and  Sam  Whaley 

went  on  his  weak  way  to  do  whatever  it  was  that 

he  was  supposed  to  be  doing. 

"Sam's  all  right,  Bob,"  said  one  who  had  laughed. 

"His  heart  is  in  the  right  place." 

"Sure  he  is,"   agreed  Bob.     "But  I  sometimes 

can't  help  thinkin',  just  the  same,  that  if  I  was 

a-ownin'  and  a-workin'  slaves,   I'd  consider  him   a 

mighty  poor  piece  of  property." 

When  Adam  Ward  entered  the  office,  some  time 
later,  he  walked  straight  to  his  son's  desk,  without 
so  much  as  a  glance  or  a  nod  of  recognition  toward 
any  other  soul  in  the  big  room. 

"1  want  to  talk  with  you,  John,"  he  said,  grimly, 
and  passed  on  into  his  private  office. 

The  closing  of  the  door  of  that  sacred  inner  room 
behind  John  was  the  signal  for  a  buzz  of  excited 
comments. 

"Lordy,"  gasped  a  stenographer  to  her  nearest 
neighbor,  "but  I'm  sorry  for  poor  young  Mr.  Ward — 
did  you  see  the  old  man's  face?" 

The  half-whispered  remark  expressed,  with  fair 
accuracy,  the  general  sentiment  of  the  entire  force. 

Adam  Ward  did  not  sit  down  at  his  desk,  but 
going  to  a  window  he  stood  looking  out  as  though 
deep  in  thought. 

"Father,"  said  John,  at  last,  "what  is  it?  Has 
anything  happened?" 

Adam  turned  slowly,  and  it  was  evident  that  he 
was  holding  his  self-control  by  a  supreme  effort  of 

118 


THE  MILL 


will.  "I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  quit,"  he  said. 
"From  to-day  on  you  will  take  my  place  and  assume 
my  responsibilities  in  the  Mill." 

"I  am  glad,  father,"  said  John,  simply.  "You 
really  should  be  free  from  all  business  cares.  As  for 
my  taking  your  place  in  the  Mill,"  he  smiled,  "no 
one  could  ever  do  that,  father." 

"You  have  full  control  and  absolute  authority 
from  to-day  on,"  returned  Adam.  "I  shall  never 
put  my  foot  inside  the  doors  of  the  plant  or  the 
office  again." 

"But,  father!"  cried  John.  "There  is  no  need  for 
you  to " 

Adam  interrupted  him  with  an  imperious  gesture. 
"There  is  no  use  arguing  about  it,"  he  said,  coldly. 
"But  there  are  two  or  three  things  that  I  want  to 
tell  you — that  I  think  you  ought  to  know.  You 
can  take  them  from  me  or  not,  as  you  please.  My 
ideas  and  policies  that  made  this  institution  what 
it  is  to-day  will  probably  be  thrown  aside  as  so 
much  worthless  junk,  but  I  am  going  to  give  you  a 
word  or  two  of  warning  just  the  same." 

John  knew  that  when  his  father  was  in  this  mood 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  keep  silent.  But 
the  expression  of  the  old  Mill  owner's  face  filled  his 
son's  heart  with  pity,  and  the  boy  could  not  refrain 
from  saying,  "I  am  sorry  you  feel  that  way  about  it, 
father,  because  really  you  are  all  wrong.  Can't 
we  sit  down  and  talk  it  over  comfortably?" 

"I  prefer  to  stand,"  returned  Adam.  "I  can 
say  all  I  have  to  say  in  a  few  words.  I  am  retiring 
because  I  know,  now,  after" — he  hesitated — "after 

119 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

the  last  two  nights,  that  I  must.  I  am  turning  the 
Mill  over  to  you  because  I  would  rather  burn  it  to 
the  ground  than  see  it  in  the  hands  of  any  one 
outside  the  family.  I  believe,  too,  that  the  only 
way  to  get  the  wild,  idiotic  ideas  of  that  old  fool 
basket  maker  out  of  your  head  is  to  make  you  per 
sonally  responsible  for  the  success  or  failure  of  this 
business.  I  have  watched  you  long  enough  to  know 
that  you  have  the  ability  to  handle  it,  and  I  am  con 
vinced  that  once  you  realize  how  much  money  you 
can  make,  you  will  drop  all  your  sentimental  non 
sense  and  get  your  feet  on  solid  ground." 

John  Ward's  cheeks  flushed,  but  he  made  no  reply 
to  his  father's  pointed  observations. 

' '  I  had  those  same  romantic  notions  about  work  and 
business  myself  when  I  was  your  age,"  continued 
Adam,  "but  experience  taught  me  better.  Experi 
ence  will  teach  you."  He  paused  and  went  to  stand 
at  the  window  again. 

John  waited. 

Presently  Adam  faced  about  once  more.  "I 
suppose  you  have  noticed  that  Mclver  is  greatly 
interested  in  your  sister  Helen?" 

"I  imagined  so,"  returned  John,  soberly. 

"Well,  he  is.  He  wants  to  marry  her.  If  she 
will  only  be  sensible  and  see  it  right,  it  is  a  wonder 
ful  opportunity  for  us.  Mclver  made  over  a  million 
out  of  the  war.  His  factory  is  next  to  this  in  size 
and  importance  and  it  is  so  closely  related  to  the 
Mill  that  a  combination  of  the  two  industries,  with 
the  control  of  the  new  process,  would  give  you  a  tre 
mendous  advantage.  You  could  practically  put  all 

120 


THE   MILL 


competitors  out  of  business.  Mclver  has  approached 
me  several  times  on  the  proposition  but  I  have  been 
holding  off,  hoping  that  Helen  would  accept  him,  so 
that  their  marriage  would  tie  the  thing  up  that  much 
tighter.  You  and  Mclver,  with  the  family  relation 
established  by  Helen,  would  make  a  great  team. ' '  He 
hesitated  and  his  face  worked  with  nervous  emotion 
as  he  added,  "  There  is  something  about  the  new 

process  that — perhaps — you  should  know — I " 

He  stopped  abruptly  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room 
in  nervous  excitement,  as  if  fighting  for  the  mas 
tery  of  the  emotions  aroused  by  this  mention  of  his 
patented  property. 

As  John  Ward  watched  his  father  and  felt  the 
struggle  within  the  man's  secret  self,  the  room 
seemed  suddenly  filled  with  the  invisible  presence 
of  that  hidden  thing.  The  younger  man's  eyes 
filled  with  tears  and  he  cried  hi  protest,  "  Father — 
father — please  don't — 

For  a  moment  Adam  Ward  faced  his  son  hi  silence. 
Then,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  he  muttered,  "It's  all 
right,  John;  just  one  of  my  nervous  attacks.  It's 
gone  now." 

Changing  the  subject  abruptly,  he  said,  "I  must 
warn  you,  my  boy — keep  away  from  the  Inter 
preter.  Have  nothing  to  do  with  him;  he  is  danger 
ous.  And  watch  out  for  Pete  Martin  and  Charlie, 
too.  They  are  all  three  together.  This  agitator, 
Jake  Vodell,  is  going  to  make  trouble.  He  is 
already  getting  a  start  with  Mclver's  men.  You 
have  some  radicals  right  here  on  your  pay  roll,  but 
if  you  stick  with  Mclver  and  follow  his  lead  you  will 

121 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

come  through  easily  and  put  these  unions  where 
they  belong.  That's  all,  I  guess,"  he  finished,  wear 
ily.  "Call  in  your  superintendent." 

"Just  a  moment,  father,"  said  John  Ward,  stead 
ily.  "It  is  not  fair  to  either  of  us  for  me  to  accept 
the  management  of  the  Mill  without  telling  you  that 
I  can't  do  all  that  you  have  suggested." 

Adam  looked  at  his  son  sharply.  "And  what 
can't  you  do?"  he  demanded. 

"I  shall  never  work  with  Mclver  in  any  way," 
answered  John  slowly.  "You  know  what  I  think 
of  him  and  his  business  principles.  Helen's  interest 
in  him  is  her  own  affair,  but  I  have  too  great  a  sense 
of  loyalty  to  my  country  and  too  much  self-respect 
ever  to  think  of  Mclver  as  anything  but  a  traitor 
and  an  enemy." 

"And  what  else?"  asked  Adam. 

"I  will  not  promise  to  keep  away  from  the  Inter 
preter.  I  reserve  the  right  to  choose  my  own  friends 
and  business  associates,  and  I  will  deal  with  the 
employees  of  the  Mill  and  with  the  unions  without 
regard  to  Mclver's  policies  or  any  consideration  of 
his  interest  in  any  way  whatever." 

For  a  long  moment  Adam  Ward  looked  at  his  son 
who  stood  so  straight  and  uncompromisingly  soldier 
like  before  him.  Suddenly,  to  John's  amazement,  his 
father  laughed.  And  there  was  not  a  little  admira 
tion  and  pride  in  the  old  Mill  owner's  voice  as  he 
said,  "I  see!  In  other  words,  if  you  are  going  to 
be  the  boss,  you  don't  propose  to  have  any  strings 
tied  to  you." 

"Would  you,  sir?"  asked  John. 
122 


THE   MILL 


"No,  I  wouldn't,"  returned  Adam  and  laughed 
again.  "Well,  go  ahead.  Have  it  your  own  way. 
I  am  not  afraid  for  you  in  the  long  run.  You  are 
too  much  like  me  not  to  find  out  where  your  own 
interests  lie,  once  you  come  squarely  up  against 
the  situation.  I  only  wanted  to  help  you,  but  it 
looks  as  though  you  would  have  to  go  through  the 
experience  for  yourself.  It's  all  right,  son,  go  to  it! 
Now  call  George." 

When  the  superintendent  entered  the  private  office, 
Adam  Ward  said,  briefly,  "George,  I  am  turning  the 
Mill  over  to  John  here.  From  to-day  on  he  is  the 
manager  without  any  strings  on  him  in  any  way.  He 
has  the  entire  responsibility  and  is  the  only  author 
ity.  He  accounts  to  no  one  but  himself.  That  is 
all." 

Abruptly  Adam  Ward  left  the  private  office. 
Without  even  a  look  toward  the  men  in  the  big 
outer  room  who  had  served  with  him  for  years, 
he  passed  on  out  to  the  street. 

When  the  whistle  sounded,  John  went  out  into 
the  Mill  to  stand  near  the  window  where  the  work 
men  passing  in  line  received  their  envelopes. 

From  every  part  of  the  great  main  building,  from 
the  yards  and  the  several  outer  sheds  and  structures 
they  came.  From  furnace  and  engine  and  bench 
and  machine  they  made  their  way  toward  that 
given  point  as  scattered  particles  of  steel  filings  are 
drawn  toward  a  magnet.  The  converging  paths  of 
individuals  touched,  and  two  walked  side  by  side. 
Other  individuals  joined  the  two  and  as  quickly 

123 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

trios  and  quartets  came  together  to  form  groups  that 
united  with  other  similar  groups;  while  from  the 
mass  thus  assembled,  the  thin  line  was  formed  that 
extended  past  the  pay  clerk's  window  and  linked  the 
Mill  to  the  outer  world. 

In  that  eager  throng  of  toilers  Adam  Ward's  son 
saw  men  of  almost  every  race:  Scotchmen  greeted 
Norwegians;  men  from  Ireland  exchanged  friendly 
jests  with  men  from  Italy;  sons  of  England  laughed 
with  the  sons  of  France;  Danes  touched  elbows  with 
Dutchmen;  and  men  from  Poland  stood  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  men  whose  fathers  fought  with  Wash 
ington.  And  every  man  was  marked  alike  with  the 
emblems  of  a  common  brotherhood — the  brother 
hood  of  work.  Their  faces  were  colored  with  the 
good  color  of  their  toil — with  the  smoke  of  their 
furnaces,  and  the  grime  of  their  engines,  and  the  oil 
from  their  machines  mixed  with  the  sweat  of  their 
own  bodies.  Their  clothing  was  uniform  with  the 
insignia  of  then*  united  endeavor.  And  to  the  newly 
appointed  manager  of  the  Mill,  these  men  of  every 
nation  were  comrades  in  a  common  cause,  spending 
the  strength  of  their  manhood  for  common  human 
needs.  He  saw  that  only  in  the  work  of  the  world 
could  the  brotherhood  of  man  be  realized;  only  in 
the  Mill  of  life's  essential  industries  could  the 
nations  of  the  earth  become  as  one. 

In  that  gathering  of  workmen  the  son  of  Adam 
Ward  saw  men  of  many  religions,  sects  and  creeds: 
Christians  and  pagans;  Catholics  and  Protestants; 
men  who  worshiped  the  God  of  Abraham  and  men 
who  worshiped  no  God;  followers  of  strange  fanati- 

124 


THE  MILL 


cal  spiritualism  and  followers  of  a  stranger  material 
ism.  And  he  saw  those  many  shades  of  human 
beliefs  blended  and  harmonized — brought  into  one 
comprehensive  whole  by  the  power  of  the  common 
necessities  of  human  life. 

He  saw  that  the  unity  of  the  warring  religions 
of  the  world  would  not  be  accomplished  in  seminaries 
of  speculative  theological  thought,  but  that  in  the 
Mill  of  life  the  spiritual  brotherhood  of  all  mankind 
would  be  realized.  In  work,  he  saw  the  true  wor 
ship  of  a  common  God  whose  vice-regent  on  earth 
is  humanity  itself. 

In  that  pay-day  assembly  John  saw  men  of  middle 
age  to  whom  the  work  into  which  they  daily  put  the 
strength  of  their  lives  meant  nothing  less  than  the 
lives  of  their  families.  In  the  families  dependent 
upon  the  Mill  he  saw  the  life  of  the  nation  dependent 
upon  the  nation's  industries.  As  he  saw  in  the  line 
men  old  and  gray  and  bent  with  the  toil  of  many 
years,  he  realized  how  the  generation  of  this  day  is 
indebted  for  every  blessing  of  life — for  life  itself, 
indeed — to  these  veterans  of  the  Mill  who  have  given 
then"  years  in  work  that  the  nation  might,  through 
its  industries,  live  and,  in  the  building  up  of  its 
industries,  grow  strong. 

As  he  watched  the  men  of  his  own  age,  he  thought 
how  they,  too,  must  receive  the  torch  from  the 
failing  hands  of  their  passing  fathers,  and  in  the  Mill 
prove  their  manhood's  right  to  carry  the  fire  of  their 
country's  industrial  need. 

And  there  were  boys  on  the  edge  of  manhood, 
who  must  be,  by  the  Mill,  trained  in  work  for  the 

125 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

coming  needs  of  their  country;  who  must  indeed 
find  their  very  manhood  itself  in  work,  or  through  all 
their  years  remain  wards  of  the  people — a  burden 
upon  humanity — the  weakness  of  the  nation.  For 
as  surely  as  work  is  health  and  strength  and  honor 
and  happiness  and  life,  so  surely  is  idleness  disease 
and  weakness  and  shame  and  misery  and  death. 

The  home  builder,  the  waster,  the  gambler, 
the  loyal  citizen,  the  slacker,  the  honest  and  dis 
honest — they  were  all  there  at  the  pay  window 
of  the  Mill.  And  to  each  the  pay  envelope  meant  a 
different  thing.  To  big  Max  the  envelope  meant  an 
education  for  his  son.  To  Bill  Connley  it  meant 
food  and  clothing  for  his  brood  of  children.  To 
young  Scot  it  meant  books  for  his  study.  To  others 
it  meant  medicine  or  doctors  for  sick  ones  at  home. 
To  others  it  meant  dissipation  and  dishonor.  To 
all  alike  those  pay  envelopes  meant  Life. 

As  these  men  of  the  Mill  passed  the  son  of  Adam 
Ward,  there  were  many  smiling  nods  and  hearty 
words  of  greeting.  Now  and  then  one  would  speak 
a  few  words  about  his  work.  Others  passed  a 
laughing  jest.  Many  who  were  his  comrades  in 
France  gave  him  the  salute  of  their  military  days — 
half  in  fun,  but  with  a  hint  of  underlying  seriousness 
that  made  the  act  a  recognition  of  his  rank  in  the 
industrial  army. 

And  John  returned  these  greetings  in  the  same  good 
spirit  of  fellowship.  To  one  it  was,  "  Hello,  Tony, 
how  is  that  new  baby  at  your  house?"  To  another, 
whose  hand  was  swathed  in  a  dirty  bandage,  "Take 
care  of  that  hand,  Mack;  don't  get  funny  with  it  just 

126 


THE  MILL 


because  it's  well  enough  to  use  again."  To  another, 
"How  is  the  wife,  Frank,  better?  Good,  that's  fine." 
Again  it  was,  "You  fellows  on  number  six  machine 
made  a  record  this  week."  Again,  "Who's  the  hoodoo 
on  number  seven  furnace? — four  accidents  in  six  days 
is  going  some — better  look  around  for  your  Jonah." 
And  again,  "I  heard  about  that  stunt  of  yours,  Bill; 
the  kid  would  have  been  killed  sure  if  you  hadn't 
kept  your  head  and  nerve.  It  was  great  work,  old 
man."  And  to  a  lad  farther  down  the  line,  "You'll 
know  better  next  time,  won't  you,  son?"  But  there 
were  some  who  passed  John  Ward  with  averted 
faces  or  downcast  eyes.  Here  and  there  there  were 
sneering,  vicious  glances  and  low  muttered  oaths 
and  curses  and  threats.  Not  infrequently  the  name 
of  Jake  Vodell  was  mentioned  with  approved  quo 
tations  from  the  agitator's  speeches  of  hatred  against 
the  employer  class. 

The  last  of  the  long  line  of  workmen  was  approach 
ing  the  window  when  Pete  Martin  greeted  the  son 
of  his  old  bench  mate  with  a  smile  of  fatherly  affec 
tion  and  pride. 

"Hello,  Uncle  Pete,"  returned  John.  "Where  is 
Charlie?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  John,"  the  old  man  an 
swered,  looking  about.  "I  supposed  he  had  gone  on, 
I  was  a  little  slow  myself." 

"There  he  is,"  said  John,  as  the  soldier  workman 
came  running  from  a  distant  part  of  the  building. 

When  Captain  Charlie  came  up  to  them,  his 
father  moved  on  to  the  window  so  that  for  a  moment 
the  two  friends  were  alone. 

127 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

"It's  come,  Charlie,"  said  John,  in  a  low  tone. 
"  Father  told  me  and  gave  it  out  to  the  superin 
tendent  to-day." 

"  Hurrah!"  said  Charlie  Martin,  and  he  would  have 
said  more  but  his  comrade  interrupted  him. 

"Shut  up,  will  you?  We  must  go  out  to  the  hill 
to-morrow  for  a  talk.  I'll  come  for  you  early." 

"Right!"  said  Charlie  with  a  grin,  "but  may  I 
be  permitted  to  say  congratulations?" 

" Congratulations  your  foot!"  returned  the  new 
general  manager.  "It's  going  to  be  one  whale  of  a 
job,  old  man." 

The  last  of  the  stragglers  came  near  and  Charlie 
Martin  moved  on,  in  his  turn,  to  the  pay  window. 

When  John  arrived  home  in  the  late  afternoon,  his 
sister  met  him  with  many  joyful  exclamations.  "Is 
father  in  earnest?  Are  you  really  to  take  his  place, 
John?" 

John  laughed.  "You  would  have  thought  he 
was  in  earnest  if  you  had  heard  him."  Then  he 
asked,  soberly,  "Where  is  father,  Helen;  is  he  all 
right?" 

"He  has  been  shut  up  in  his  room  all  alone  ever 
since  he  told  us,"  she  returned,  sadly.  "I  do  hope 
he  will  be  better  now  that  he  is  to  have  complete 
rest." 

As  if  determined  to  permit  no  cloud  to  mar  the  joy 
of  the  occasion,  she  continued,  with  eager  interest, 
"Do  tell  me  about  it,  brother.  Were  the  men  in  the 
office  glad?  Aren't  you  happy  and  proud?  And 
how  did  the  workmen  take  it?" 


THE   MILL 


"The  people  in  the  office  were  very  nice,"  he 
answered,  smiling  back  at  her.  "Good  old  George 
looked  a  little  like  he  wanted  to  laugh  and  cry  at  the 
same  time.  The  men  in  the  plant  don't  know  yet, 
except  Charlie — I  told  him." 

A  little  shadow  fell  over  Helen's  happy  face  and 
she  looked  away.  "I  suppose  of  course  you  would 
tell  Charlie  Martin  the  first  thing,"  she  said,  slowly. 
Then,  throwing  her  arm  suddenly  about  his  neck,  she 
kissed  him.  "You  are  a  dear,  silly,  sentimental  old 
thing,  but  I  am  as  proud  as  I  can  be  of  you." 

"As  for  that,"  returned  John,  "I  guess  it  must  run 
in  the  family  somehow.  I  notice  little  things  now 
and  then  that  make  me  think  my  sister  may  not 
always  be  exactly  a  staid,  matter-of-fact  old  lady 
owl." 

When  he  had  laughed  at  her  blushes,  and  had 
teased  her  as  a  brother  is  in  duty  bound,  he  said, 
seriously,  "Will  you  tell  me  something,  Helen? 
Something  that  I  want  very  much  to  know — straight 
from  you." 

"What  is  it,  John?" 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  Jim  Mclver?" 

"How  do  you  know  that  he  wants  me?" 

"Father  told  me  to-day.  Don't  fence  please, 
dear.  Either  tell  me  straight  out  or  tell  me  to  mind 
my  own  business." 

She  replied  with  straightforward  honesty,  "Mr. 
Mclver  has  asked  me,  John,  but  I  can't  tell  you  what 
my  answer  will  be.  I  don't  know  myself." 


CHAPTER  X 

CONCERNING  THE  NEW  MANAGER 

WHEN  the  Mill  whistle  sounded  at  the  close 
of  that  pay  day,  Mary  was  sitting  under 
the  tree  in  the  yard  with  her  sewing  basket — 
a  gift  from  the  Interpreter — on  the  grass  beside  her 
chair.  The  sunlight  lay  warm  and  bright  on  the 
garden  where  the  ever  industrious  bees  were  filling 
their  golden  bags  with  the  sweet  wealth  of  the  old- 
fashioned  flowers.  Bright-winged  butterflies  zig 
zagged  here  and  there  above  the  shrubbery  along 
the  fence  and  over  her  head;  in  the  leafy  shadows  of 
the  trees  her  bird  friends  were  cheerfully  busy  with 
their  small  duties.  Now  and  then  a  passing  neigh 
bor  paused  to  exchange  a  word  or  two  of  their  com 
mon  interests.  Presently  workmen  from  the  Mill 
went  by — men  of  her  father's  class  who  lived  in  that 
vicinity  of  well-kept  cottage  homes;  and  each  one 
called  a  greeting  to  the  daughter  of  his  friend. 

And  so,  at  last,  Peter  Martin  himself  and  Captain 
Charlie  turned  hi  at  the  little  white  gate  and  came  to 
sit  down  on  the  grass  at  her  feet. 

"You  are  late  to-day,"  said  Mary,  smiling.  "I 
suppose  you  both  have  forgotten  that  the  vegetable 
garden  is  to  be  hoed  this  afternoon  and  that  you, 
Charlie,  promised  to  beat  the  rugs  for  me." 

Captain  Charlie  stretched  himself  lazily  on  the 
130 


CONCERNING  THE  NEW  MANAGER 

cool  grass.  "We  should  worry  about  gardens  and 
rugs  and  things,"  he  returned.  "This  is  the  day  we 
celebrate." 

The  father  laughed  quietly  at  his  daughter's  look 
of  puzzled  inquiry. 

"The  day  you  celebrate?"  said  Mary.  "Cele 
brate  what?" 

Charlie  answered  with  a  fair  imitation  of  a  soap 
box  orator,  "This,  my  beloved  sister,  is  the  day  of 
our  emancipation  from  the  iron  rule  of  that  cruel 
capitalist,  who  has  for  so  many  years  crushed  the 
lives  of  his  toiling  slaves  in  his  Mill  of  hell,  and 
coined  our  heart's  blood  into  dollars  to  fill  his  selfish 
coffers  of  princely  luxury.  Down  through  the 
ringing  ages  of  the  future  this  day  will  be  forever 
celebrated  as  the  day  that  signals  the  dawning  of  a 
new  era  in  the  industrial  world  of — uh-wow!  Stop 
it!" 

Captain  Charlie  was  ticklish  and  the  toe  of 
Mary's  slippered  foot  had  found  a  vital  spot  among 
his  ribs. 

"You  sound  like  that  Jake  Vodell,"  she  said. 
"Stop  your  nonsense  this  minute  and  tell  me  what 
you  mean  or "  Her  foot  advanced  again  threat 
eningly. 

Captain  Charlie  rolled  over  to  a  safe  distance  and 
sat  up  to  grin  at  her  with  teasing  impudence. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him,  father?"  she  de 
manded. 

But  Pete  only  laughed  and  answered,  "I  guess 
maybe  he  thinks  he's  going  to  get  promoted  to  some 
higher-up  position  in  the  Mill." 

131 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

"No  such  luck  for  me!"  said  Charlie  quickly. 
"John  will  need  me  too  much  right  where  I  am." 

A  bright  color  swept  into  Mary's  cheeks  and  her 
eyes  shone  with  glad  excitement.  "Do  you  mean 

that  John — that  his  father  has "  She  looked 

from  her  father's  face  to  her  brother  and  back  to 
her  father  again. 

Pete  nodded  silently. 

"You've  guessed  it,  sister,"  said  Charlie.  "Old 
Adam  walked  out  for  good  to-day,  turned  the  whole 
works  over  to  John — troubles,  triumphs,  opportu 
nities,  disasters  and  all.  And  it's  a  man's  sized  job 
the  boy  has  drawn,  believe  me — especially  right 
now,  with  Jake  Vodell  as  busy  as  he  is." 

"The  men  in  the  Mill  were  all  pleased  with  the 
change,  weren't  they?  "  asked  Mary. 

"They  will  be,  when  they  hear  of  it,"  answered 
Captain  Charlie,  getting  to  his  feet.  "That  is,"  he 
added,  as  he  met  his  father's  look,  "most  of  them 
will  be." 

"  There's  some  in  the  Mill  that  it  won't  make  any 
difference  to,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Peter  Martin,  soberly. 

Then  the  two  men  went  into  the  house  to,  as  they 
said,  "clean  up" — an  operation  that  required  a 
goodly  supply  of  water  with  plenty  of  soap  and  a 
no  little  physical  effort  in  the  way  of  vigorous  rub 
bing. 

YvTien  her  father  and  brother  were  gone,  Mary 
Martin  sat  very  still.  So  still  was  she  that  a  butter 
fly  paused  in  its  zigzag  flight  about  the  yard  to 
rest  on  the  edge  of  the  work  basket  at  her  side.  At 
last  the  young  woman  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  drop- 

132 


CONCERNING   THE   NEW  MANAGER 

ping  the  sewing  she  had  held  on  the  other  things  in 
the  basket.  The  startled  butterfly  spread  its  gor 
geous  wings  and  zigzagged  away  unnoticed.  Cross 
ing  the  little  lawn,  Mary  made  her  way  among  the 
flowers  in  the  garden  until  she  stood  half  hidden  in 
the  tall  bushes  which  grew  along  the  fence  that  sep 
arated  the  Martin  home  from  the  neglected  grounds 
about  the  old  house.  When  her  father  and  brother 
went  to  their  pleasant  task  in  the  vegetable  garden 
she  was  still  standing  there,  but  the  men  did  not 
notice. 

Later,  when  Mary  called  the  men  to  supper,  the 
change  in  the  management  of  the  Mill  was  again 
mentioned.  And  all  during  the  evening  meal 
it  was  the  topic  of  their  conversation.  It  was  nat 
ural  that  the  older  man  should  recall  the  days  when 
he  and  Adam  and  the  Interpreter  had  worked 
together. 

"The  men  generally  showed  a  different  spirit 
toward  their  work  in  those  days,"  said  the  veteran. 
"They  seemed  to  have  a  feeling  of  pride  and  a  love 
for  it  that  I  don't  see  much  of  now.  Of  late  years,  it 
looks  as  though  everybody  hates  his  job  and  is 
ashamed  of  what  he  is  doing.  They  all  seem  to 
think  of  nothing  but  their  pay,  and  busy  their  minds 
with  scheming  how  they  can  get  the  most  and  give 
the  least.  It's  the  regular  thing  to  work  with  one 
eye  on  the  foreman  and  the  other  on  the  clock,  and 
to  count  it  a  great  joke  when  a  job  is  spoiled  or  a 
breakdown  causes  trouble."  All  of  which  was  a 
speech  of  unusual  length  for  Pete  Martin. 

133 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

Captain  Charlie  asked,  thoughtfully,  "And  don't 
you  think,  father,  that  Adam  looks  on  the  work  of 
the  Mill  in  exactly  that  spirit  of  'get  the  most  for 
the  least'  without  regard  to  the  meaning  and  pur 
pose  of  the  work  itself?" 

"There's  no  reason  to  doubt  it,  son,  that  I  can 
see,"  returned  the  old  workman. 

"I  have  often  wondered,"  said  Charlie,  "how 
much  the  attitude  of  the  employees  toward  their 
work  is  due  to  the  attitude  of  their  employers 
toward  that  same  work." 

The  old  workman  returned,  heartily,  "We'll  be 
seeing  a  different  feeling  hi  the  Mill  under  John, 
I  am  thinkin' — he's  different." 

"I  should  say  he  is  different,"  agreed  Charlie, 
quickly.  "John  would  rather  work  at  his  job  for 
nothing  than  do  anything  else  for  ten  tunes  the 
salary  he  draws.  But  was  Adam  always  as  he  is 
now?" 

"About  his  work  do  you  mean?" 

"Yes." 

Adam  Ward's  old  comrade  answered,  slowly, 
"I've  often  wondered  that  myself.  I  can't  say  for 
sure.  As  I  look  back  now,  I  think  sometimes  that 
he  used  to  have  an  interest  in  the  work  itself  at  first. 
Takin'  his  development  of  the  new  process  and  all— 
it  almost  seems  that  he  must  have  had.  And  yet, 
there's  some  things  that  make  me  think  that  all  the 
time  it  meant  nothing  to  him  but  just  what  he  could 
get  out  of  it  for  himself." 

"Helen  will  be  happy  over  the  change,  won't  she?" 
remarked  Mary. 

134 


CONCERNING   THE  NEW  MANAGER 

"Helen!"  ejaculated  Captain  Charlie,  with  more 
emphasis  perhaps  than  the  occasion  demanded. 
"She  won't  give  it  so  much  as  a  thought.  Why 
should  she?  She  can  go  on  with  her  dinners  and 
card  parties  and  balls  and  country  club  affairs  with 
the  silk-hatted  slackers  of  her  set,  just  the  same  as 
if  nothing  had  happened." 

Mary  laughed.  "  Seems  to  me  I  have  heard  some 
thing  like  that  before — 'silk-hatted  slackers' — it 
sounds  familiar."  . 

Captain  Charlie  watched  her  suspiciously. 

The  father  laughed  quietly. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  exclaimed,  with  an  air  of  tri 
umph.  "It  was  Bobby  Whaley  who  said  it.  I 
remember  thinking  at  the  time  that  it  probably 
came  to  him  from  his  father,  who  of  course  got  it 
from  Jake  Vodell.  Silk-hatted  slackers — sounds  like 
Jake,  doesn't  it,  father?" 

Captain  Charlie  grinned  sheepishly.  "I  know  it 
was  a  rotten  thing  to  say,"  he  admitted.  "Some  of 
the  best  and  bravest  men  in  our  army  were  silk- 
hatters  at  home.  They  were  in  the  ranks,  too,  a  lot 
of  them — just  like  John  Ward.  And  some  of  the 
worst  cowards  and  shirkers  and  slackers  that  ever 
lived  belonged  to  our  ancient  and  noble  order  of  the 
horny-handed  sons  of  toil,  that  Jake  Vodell  orates 
about.  But  what  gets  me,  is  the  way  some  of  those 
fellows  who  were  everything  but  slackers  in  France 
act,  now  that  they  are  back  home.  Over  there  they 
were  on  the  job  with  everything  they  had,  to  the 
last  drop  of  their  blood.  But  now  that  they  are 
back  hi  then*  own  home  country  again,  they  have 

135 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

simply  thrown  up  their  hands  and  quit — that  is,  a 
lot  of  them  have.  They  seem  to  think  that  the  sign 
ing  of  the  Armistice  ended  it  all  and  that  they  can 
do  nothing  now  for  the  rest  of  then-  lives.  Who 
was  it  said,  'Peace  hath  her  victories/  or  something 
like  that?  Well,  peace  hath  her  defeats,  too.  I'll 
be  hanged  if  I  can  understand  how  a  man  who  has  it 
in  him  to  be  a  one  hundred  per  cent  American  hero  in 
war  can  be  a  Simon-pure  slacker  in  times  of  peace." 

As  he  finished,  Captain  Charlie  pushed  his  chair 
back  from  the  table  and,  finding  his  pipe,  proceeded 
to  fill  it  with  the  grim  determination  of  an  old-tune 
minuteman  ramming  home  a  charge  in  his  Bunker 
Hill  musket. 

Later  the  two  men  went  out  to  enjoy  then*  pipes 
on  the  lawn  in  the  cool  of  the  evening.  They  were 
discussing  the  industrial  situation  when  Mary, 
having  finished  her  household  work  for  the  night, 
joined  them. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  "that  Jake  Vodell 
called  to-day." 

"Again!"  exclaimed  Charlie. 

"If  Vodell  wants  to  talk  with  us  he'll  have  to  come 
when  we  are  at  home,"  said  Pete  Martin,  slowly, 
looking  at  his  daughter. 

With  a  laugh,  the  young  woman  returned,  "But 
I  don't  think  that  it  was  you  or  Charlie  that  he 
wanted  to  see  this  time,  father." 

"What  did  he  want?"  demanded  her  brother 
quickly. 

"He  wanted  me  to  go  with  him  to  a  dance  next 
Tuesday,"  she  answered  demurely. 

136 


CONCERNING   THE   NEW  MANAGER 

"Huh/'  came  in  a  tone  of  disgust  from  Charlie. 

The  father  asked,  quietly,  "And  what  did  you 
say  to  him,  Mary?" 

"I  told  him  that  I  went  to  dances  only  with  my 
friends." 

"Good!"  said  Captain  Charlie. 

"And  what  then?"  asked  Pete. 

"Then,"  she  hesitated,  "then  he  said  something 
about  my  being  careful  that  I  had  the  right  sort  of 
friends  and  referred  to  Charlie  and  John." 

"Yes?"  said  Mary's  father. 

"He  said  that  the  only  use  John  Ward  had 
for  Charlie  was  to  get  a  line  on  the  union  and 
the  plans  of  the  men — that  his  friendship  was  only 
a  pretext  in  order  that  he  might  use  Charlie  as  a 
sort  of  spy  and  that  the  union  men  wouldn't  stand 
for  it." 

Captain  Charlie  muttered  something  under  his 
breath  that  he  could  not  speak  aloud  in  the  presence 
of  his  sister. 

Pete  Martin  deliberately  knocked  the  ashes  from 
his  pipe. 

"Then,"  continued  Mary,  "he  talked  about  how 
everybody  knew  that  John  was  nothing  but  a" — 
she  laughed  mockingly  at  her  brother — "a  silk- 
hatted  swell  who  couldn't  hold  his  job  an  hour  if  it 
wasn't  that  his  father  owned  the  Mill,  and  that 
Charlie  was  a  hundred  tunes  more  competent  to 
manage  the  business.  He  said  that  anybody  could 
see  how  Charlie's  promotion  in  the  army  proved 
him  superior  to  John,  who  was  never  anything  but  a 
common  private."  ' 

137 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

Captain  Charlie  laughed  aloud.  "John  and  I 
understand  all  about  that  superiority  business.  I 
was  lucky,  that's  all — our  captain  just  happened 
to  be  looking  in  my  direction.  Believe  me,  good  old 
John  was  just  as  busy  as  I  ever  dared  to  be,  only  it 
was  his  luck  to  be  busy  at  some  other  point  that  the 
captain  didn't  see." 

"Is  that  all  Jake  had  to  say,  daughter?" 

"No,"  answered  the  young  woman,  slowly. 
"I — I  am  afraid  I  was  angry  at  what  he  called  John — 
I  mean  at  what  he  said  about  Charlie  and  John's 
friendship — and  so  I  told  him  what  I  thought  about 
him  and  Sam  Whaley  and  their  crowd,  and  asked 
him  to  go  and  not  come  back  again  except  to  see 
you  or  Charlie." 

"Good  for  you,  Mary!"  exclaimed  her  brother. 

But  the  old  workman  said  nothing. 

"And  how  did  Jake  take  his  dismissal?"  asked 
Charlie,  presently. 

"He  went,  of  course,"  she  answered.  "But  he 
said  that  he  would  show  me  what  the  friendship  of  a 
man  of  John  Ward's  class  meant  to  a  working  man; 
that  the  union  men  would  find  out  who  the  loyal 
members  were  and  when  the  tune  came  they  would 
know  whom  to  reward  and  whom  to  treat  as  traitors 
to  the  Cause." 

For  a  little  while  after  this  the  three  sat  in  silence. 
At  last  Peter  Martin  rose  heavily  to  his  feet.  "  Come, 
Charlie,  it  is  tune  we  were  on  our  way  to  the  meet 
ing;  we  mustn't  be  late,  you  know." 

When  her  father  and  brother  were  gone  to  the 
meeting  of  the  Mill  workers'  union,  Mary  Martin 

138 


CONCERNING   THE   NEW  MANAGER 

locked  the  door  of  the  cottage  and  walked  swiftly 
away. 

It  was  not  far  to  the  Interpreter's  hut,  and 
presently  the  young  woman  was  climbing  the  old 
zigzag  stairway  to  the  little  house  on  the  edge  of 
the  cliff  above.  There  was  no  light  but  the  light  of 
the  stars — the  faint  breath  of  the  night  breeze 
scarcely  stirred  the  leaves  of  the  bushes  or  moved 
the  tall  weeds  that  grew  on  the  hillside.  At  the 
top  of  the  stairs  Mary  paused  to  look  at  the  many 
lights  of  the  Flats,  the  Mill,  the  business  houses, 
the  streets  and  the  homes,  that  shone  in  the  shadowy 
world  below. 

She  was  about  to  move  toward  the  door  of  the  hut 
when  the  sound  of  voices  coming  from  the  balcony- 
porch  halted  her.  The  Interpreter  was  speaking. 
She  could  not  distinguish  his  words,  but  the  deep 
tones  of  the  old  basket  maker's  voice  were  not  to  be 
mistaken.  Then  the  young  woman  heard  some  one 
reply,  and  the  laughing  voice  that  answered  the 
Interpreter  was  as  familiar  to  Mary  Martin  as  the 
laugh  of  her  own  brother.  The  evening  visitor  to 
the  little  hut  on  the  cliff  was  the  son  of  Adam  Ward. 

Very  softly  Mary  Martin  stole  back  down  the  zig 
zag  steps  to  the  road  below.  Slowly  she  went  back 
through  the  deep  shadows  of  the  night  to  her  little 
home,  with  its  garden  of  old-fashioned  flowers,  next 
door  to  the  deserted  house  where  John  Ward  was 
born. 

Late  that  night,  while  John  was  still  at  the 
Interpreter's  hut,  Adam  Ward  crept  alone  like  some 
hunted  thing  about  the  beautiful  grounds  of  his 

139 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

great  estate.  Like  a  haunted  soul  of  wretchedness, 
the  Mill  owner  had  left  his  bed  to  escape  the  horror 
of  his  dreams  and  to  find,  if  possible,  a  little  rest 
from  his  torturing  fears  in  the  calm  solitude  of  the 
night. 

When  Pete  Martin,  with  Captain  Charlie  and 
their  many  industrial  comrades,  had  returned  to  their 
homes  after  the  meeting  of  then-  union,  five  men 
gathered  in  that  duly,  poorly  lighted  room  in  the 
rear  of  Dago  Bill's  pool  hall. 

The  five  men  had  entered  the  place  one  at  a  time. 
They  spoke  together  in  low,  guarded  tones  of  John 
Ward  and  his  management  of  the  Mill,  of  Pete 
Martin  and  Captain  Charlie,  of  the  Interpreter 
and  Mclver. 

And  three  of  those  five  men  had  come  to  that 
secret  place  at  Jake  VodelTs  call,  directly  from  the 
jneeting  of  the  Mill  workers'  union. 


CHAPTER  XI 

COMRADES 

MARY  was  in  the  flower  garden  that  Sunday 
forenoon  when  John  Ward  stopped  his  big 
roadster  in  front  of  the  Martin  cottage. 

It  was  not  at  all  unusual  for  the  one-time  private, 
John,  to  call  that  way  for  his  former  superior  officer. 
Nearly  every  Sunday  when  the  weather  was  fine  the 
comrades  would  go  for  a  long  ride  in  John's  car  some 
where  into  the  country.  And  always  they  carried  a 
lunch  prepared  by  Captain  Charlie's  sister. 

Sometimes  there  might  have  been  a  touch  of 
envy  in  Mary's  generous  heart,  as  she  watched  the 
automobile  with  her  brother  and  his  friend  glide 
away  up  the  green  arched  street.  After  all,  Mary 
was  young  and  loved  the  country,  and  John  Ward's 
roadster  was  a  wonderful  machine,  and  the  boy  who 
had  lived  in  the  old  house  next  door  had  been,  in  her 
girlhood  days,  a  most  delightful  comrade  and  play 
fellow. 

The  young  woman  could  no  more  remember  her 
first  meeting  with  John  or  his  sister  Helen  than  she 
could  recall  the  exact  beginning  of  her  acquaintance 
with  Charlie.  From  her  cradle  days  she  had  known 
the  neighbor  children  as  well  as  she  had  known  her 
own  brother.  Then  the  inevitable  separation  of  the 
playmates  had  come  with  Adam  Ward's  increasing 
material  prosperity.  The  school  and  college  days  of 
John  and  Helen  and  the  removal  of  the  family  from 

141 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

the  old  house  to  the  new  home  on  the  hill  had  brought 
to  them  new  friends  and  new  interests — friends  and 
interests  that  knew  nothing  of  Pete  Martin's  son  and 
daughter.  But  hi  Mary's  heart,  because  it  was  a 
woman's  heart,  the  memories  of  the  old  house  lived. 
The  old  house  itself,  indeed,  served  to  keep  those 
memories  alive. 

John  did  not  see  her  at  first,  but  called  a  cheery 
greeting  to  her  father,  who  with  his  pipe  and  paper 
was  sitting  under  the  tree  on  the  lawn  side  of  the 
walk. 

Mary  drew  a  little  back  among  the  flowers  and 
quietly  went  on  with  her  work. 

"Is  Charlie  here,  Uncle  Pete?"  asked  John,  as  he 
came  through  the  gate. 

"He's  in  the  house,  I  think,  John,  or  out  in  the 
back  yard,  maybe,"  answered  the  old  workman. 
And,  then,  hi  his  quiet  kindly  way,  Peter  Martin 
spoke  a  few  words  to  Adam  Ward's  son  about  the 
change  hi  the  management  of  the  Mill — wishing 
John  success,  expressing  his  own  gratification  and 
confidence,  and  assuring  him  of  the  hearty  good  will 
that  prevailed,  generally,  among  the  employees. 

Presently,  as  the  two  men  talked  together,  Mary 
went  to  express  her  pleasure  in  the  promotion  of  her 
old  playmate  to  a  position  of  such  responsibility 
and  honor  in  the  industrial  world.  And  John  Ward, 
when  he  saw  her  coming  toward  him  with  an  armful 
of  flowers,  must  at  least  have  noticed  the  charming 
picture  she  made  against  that  background  of  the 
garden,  with  its  bright-colored  blossoms  hi  the  flood 
of  morning  sunlight. 

142 


COMRADES 


Certainly  the  days  of  their  childhood  companion 
ship  must  have  stirred  in  his  memory,  for  he  said, 
presently,  "Do  you  know,  Mary,  you  make  me  think 
of  mother  and  the  way  she  used  to  go  among  her 
flowers  every  Sunday  morning  when  we  lived  in  the 
old  house  there."  He  looked  thoughtfully  toward 
the  neighboring  place. 

"How  is  your  mother  these  days,  John?"  asked 
Mary's  father. 

"She  is  well,  thank  you,  Uncle  Pete,"  returned 
John.  "Except  of  course,"  he  added,  soberly,  "she 
worries  a  good  deal  about  father's  ill  health." 

"Your  father  will  surely  be  much  better,  now  that 
he  is  relieved  from  all  his  business  care,"  said  Mary. 

"We  are  all  hoping  so,"  returned  John. 

There  was  an  awkward  moment  of  silence. 

As  if  the  mention  of  his  father's  condition  had 
in  some  way  suggested  the  thought,  or,  perhaps, 
because  he  wished  to  change  the  subject,  John  said, 
"The  old  house  looks  pretty  bad,  doesn't  it?  It  is  a 
shame  that  we  have  permitted  it  to  go  to  ruin  that 
way." 

Neither  Peter  Martin  nor  his  daughter  made  reply 
to  this.  There  was  really  nothing  they  could  say. 

John  was  about  to  speak  again  when  Captain 
Charlie,  coming  from  the  house  with  then*  lunch 
basket  in  his  hand,  announced  that  he  was  ready,  and 
the  two  men  started  on  their  way. 

Standing  at  the  gate,  Mary  waved  good-by  as  her 
brother  turned  to  look  back.  Even  when  the  auto 
mobile  had  finally  passed  from  sight  she  stood  there, 
still  looking  in  the  direction  it  had  gone. 

143 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

Peter  Martin  watched  his  daughter  thought 
fully. 

Without  speaking,  Mary  went  slowly  into  the 
house. 

Her  father  sat  for  some  minutes  looking  toward  the 
door  through  which  she  had  passed.  At  last  with 
deliberate  care  he  refilled  his  pipe.  But  the  old 
workman  did  not,  for  an  hour  or  more,  resume  the 
reading  of  his  Sunday  morning  paper. 

Beyond  a  few  casual  words,  the  two  friends  in  the 
automobile  seemed  occupied,  each  with  his  own 
thoughts.  Neither  asked,  " Where  shall  we  go?"  or 
offered  any  suggestion  for  the  day's  outing.  As  if  it 
were  understood  between  them,  John  turned  toward 
the  hill  country  and  sent  the  powerful  machine  up  the 
long,  winding  grade,  as  if  on  a  very  definite  mission. 
An  hour's  driving  along  the  ridges  and  the  hillsides, 
and  they  turned  from  the  main  thoroughfare  into  a 
narrow  lane  between  two  thinly  wooded  pastures.  A 
mile  of  this  seldom  traveled  road  and  John  stopped 
his  car  beside  the  way.  Here  they  left  the  auto 
mobile,  and,  taking  the  lunch  basket,  climbed  the 
fence  and  made  then*  way  up  the  steep  side  of  the 
hill  to  a  clump  of  trees  that  overlooked  the  many 
miles  of  winding  river  and  broad  valley  and  shaded 
hills.  The  place  was  a  favorite  spot  to  which  they 
often  came  for  those  hours  of  comradeship  that  are 
so  necessary  to  all  well-grounded  and  enduring 
friendships. 

"Well,  Mister  Ward,"  said  Captain  Charlie,  when 
they  were  comfortably  seated  and  their  pipes  were 

144 


COMRADES 


going  well,  "how  does  it  feel  to  be  one  of  the  cruel 
capitalist  class  a-grindin'  the  faces  off  us  poor?" 

The  workman  spoke  lightly,  but  there  was  some 
thing  in  his  voice  that  made  John  look  at  him  sharply. 
It  was  a  little  as  though  Captain  Charlie  were 
nerving  himself  to  say  good-by  to  his  old  comrade. 

The  new  general  manager  smiled,  but  it  was  a 
rather  serious  smile.  "Do  you  remember  how  you 
felt  when  you  received  your  captain's  commission?" 
he  asked. 

"I  do  that,"  returned  Charlie.  "I  felt  that  I  had 
been  handed  a  mighty  big  job  and  was  scared  stiff 
for  fear  I  wouldn't  be  able  to  make  good  at  it." 

"Exactly,"  returned  John.  "And  I'll  never  for 
get  how  I  felt  when  they  stepped  you  up  the  first 
tune  and  left  me  out.  And  when  you  had  climbed 
on  up  and  Captain  Wheeler  was  killed  and  you 
received  your  commission,  with  me  still  stuck  in  the 
ranks — well — I  never  told  you  before  but  I'll  say 
now  that  I  was  the  lonesomest,  grouchiest,  sorest 
man  in  the  whole  A.  E.  F.  It  seemed  to  me  about 
then  that  being  a  private  was  the  meanest,  lowest, 
most  no-account  job  on  earth,  and  I  was  darned 
near  deserting  and  letting  the  Germans  win  the  war 
and  be  hanged.  I  thought  it  would  serve  the  Allies 
right  if  I  was  to  let  'em  get  licked  good  and  plenty 
just  for  failing  to  appreciate  me." 

Captain  Charlie  laughed. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can  laugh,"  said  the  new  general 
manager  of  the  Mill.  "It's  darned  funny  now, 
but  I  can  tell  you  that  there  wasn't  much  humor 
in  it  for  me  then.  We  had  lived  too  close  together 

145 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

from  that  first  moment  when  we  found  ourselves 
in  the  same  company  for  me  to  feel  comfortable  as  a 
common  buck  private,  watchin'  you  strut  around  in 
the  gentleman  officer  class,  and  not  daring  even  to 
tell  you  to  go  to — 

"You  poor  old  fool,"  said  Charlie,  affectionately. 
"You  knew  my  promotion  was  all  an  accident." 

"Exactly,"  returned  John  dryly.  "We've  settled 
all  that  a  hundred  times." 

"And  you  ought  to  have  known,"  continued  Cap 
tain  Charlie,  warmly,  "that  my  feeling  toward  you 
would  have  been  no  different  if  they  had  made  me  a 
general." 

"Sure,  I  ought  to  have  known,"  retorted  John, 
with  an  air  of  triumph. 

And  then  it  appeared  that  John  Ward  had  a  very 
definite  purpose  in  thus  turning  his  comrade's  mind 
to  then*  army  life  in  France.  "And  you  should  have 
sense  enough  to  understand  that  my  promotion  in 
the  Mill  is  not  going  to  make  any  difference  in  our 
friendship.  Your  promotion  was  the  result  of  an 
accident,  Charlie,  exactly  as  my  position  in  the  Mill 
to-day  is  the  result  of  an  accident.  Your  superior 
officer  happened  to  see  you.  I  happen  to  be  the  son 
of  Adam  Ward.  If  I  should  have  known  then  that 
your  rank  would  make  no  difference  in  your  feeling 
toward  me,  you  have  got  to  understand  now  that 
my  position  can  make  no  difference  in  my  feeling 
to  ward  you." 

Charlie  Martin's  silence  revealed  how  accurately 
John  had  guessed  his  Mill  comrade's  hidden  thoughts. 

The  new  manager  continued,  "The  thing  that 
146 


COMRADES 


straightened  me  out  on  the  question  of  our  different 
ranks  was  that  scrap  where  Captain  Charlie  and 
Private  John  found  themselves  caught  in  the  same 
shell  hole  with  no  one  else  anywhere  near  except 
friend  enemy,  and  somebody  had  to  do  something 
darned  quick.  Do  you  remember  our  argument?" 

' '  Do  I  remember ! ' '  exclaimed  Charlie.  ' '  I  remem 
ber  how  you  said  it  was  your  job  to  take  the  chance 
because  I,  being  an  officer,  was  worth  more  to  the 
cause  and  because  the  loss  of  a  private  didn't  matter 
so  much  anyhow." 

John  retorted  quickly,  "And  you  said  that  it  was 
up  to  you  to  take  the  chance  because  it  was  an 
officer's  duty  to  take  care  of  his  men." 

"And  then,"  said  Charlie,  "you  told  me  to  go  to 
hell,  commission  and  all.  And  I  swore  that  I'd  break 
you  for  insolence  and  insubordination  if  we  ever  got 
out  of  the  scrape  alive." 

"And  so,"  grinned  John,  "we  compromised  by 
pulling  it  off  together.  And  from  that  tune  on  I  felt 
different  and  was  as  proud  of  you  and  your  officer's 
swank  as  if  I  had  been  the  lucky  guy  myself." 

"Yes,"  said  Captain  Charlie,  smiling  affection 
ately,  "and  I  could  see  the  grin  in  your  eyes  every 
tune  you  saluted." 

"No  one  else  ever  saw  it,  though,"  returned  Private 
Ward,  proudly. 

"Don't  think  for  a  minute  that  I  overlooked  that 
either,"  said  Captain  Martin.  "If  any  one  else 
had  seen  it,  I  would  have  disciplined  you  for  sure." 

"And  don't  you  think  for  a  minute  that  I  didn't 
know  that,  too,"  retorted  John.  "I  could  feel  you 

147 


HELEN    OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

laying  for  me,  and  every  man  in  the  company  knew 
it  just  as  he  knew  our  friendship.  That's  what 
made  us  all  love  you  so.  We  used  to  say  that  if 
Captain  Charlie  would  just  take  a  notion  to  start  for 
Berlin  and  invite  us  to  go  along  the  war  would  be 
over  right  there." 

Charlie  Martin  laughed  appreciatively.  Then  he 
said,  earnestly,  "  After  all,  old  man,  it  wasn't  an 
officers'  war  and  it  wasn't  a  privates'  war,  was  it? 
Any  more  than  it  was  the  war  of  America,  or 
England,  or  France,  or  Australia,  or  Canada — it 
was  our  war.  And  that,  I  guess,  is  the  main  reason 
why  it  all  came  out  as  it  did." 

"Now,"  said  John,  with  hearty  enthusiasm,  "you 
are  talking  sense." 

"But  it  is  all  very  different  now,  John,"  said 
Charlie,  slowly.  "Millsburgh  is  not  France  and  the 
Mill  is  not  the  United  States  Army." 

"No,"  returned  John,  "and  yet  there  is  not  such  a 
lot  of  difference,  when  you  come  to  think  it  out." 

"We  can't  disguise  the  facts,"  said  Captain  Mar 
tin  stubbornly. 

"We  are  not  going  to  disguise  anything,"  retorted 
John.  "I  had  an  idea  how  you  would  feel  over  my 
promotion,  and  that  is  why  I  wanted  you  out  here 
to-day.  You've  got  to  get  this  'it's  all  very  dif 
ferent  now'  stuff  out  of  your  system.  So  go  ahead 
and  shoot  your  facts." 

"All  right,"  said  Charlie.  " Let's  look  at  things  as 
they  are.  It  was  all  very  well  for  us  to  moon  over 
what  we  would  do  if  we  ever  got  back  home  when  we 
knew  darned  well  our  chances  were  a  hundred  to  one 

148 


COMRADES 


against  our  ever  seeing  the  old  U.  S.  again.  We 
spilled  a  lot  of  sentiment  about  comradeship  and 
loyalty  and  citizenship  and  equality  and  all  that, 
but- 

"Can  your  chatter!"  snapped  John.  " Drag  out 
these  facts  that  you  are  so  anxious  to  have  recog 
nized.  Let's  have  a  good  look  at  whatever  it  is  that 
makes  you  rough-neck  sons  of  toil  so  superior  to  us 
lily-fingered  employers.  Go  to  the  bat." 

"Well,"  offered  Charlie,  reluctantly,  "to  begin 
with,  you  are  a  millionaire,  a  university  man,  mem 
ber  of  select  clubs;  I  am  nothing  but  a  common 
workman." 

John  returned,  quickly,  "We  are  both  citizens  of 
the  United  States.  In  the  duties  and  privileges  of 
our  citizenship  we  stand  on  exactly  the  same  foot 
ing,  just  as  in  the  army  we  stood  on  the  common 
ground  of  loyalty.  And  we  are  both  equally  depend 
ent  upon  the  industries  of  our  country — upon  the 
Mill,  and  upon  each  other.  Exactly  as  we  were 
both  dependent  upon  the  army  and  upon  each  other 
in  France." 

"You  are  the  general  manager  of  the  Mill, 
practically  the  owner,"  said  Charlie.  "I  am  only 
one  of  your  employees." 

The  son  of  Adam  Ward  answered  scornfully, 
"Yes,  over  there  it  was  Captain  Charlie  Martin  and 
Private  John  Ward  of  the  United  States  Army.  I 
suppose  it  is  a  lot  different  now  that  it  is  Captain 
John  Ward  and  Private  Charlie  Martin  of  the 
United  States  Industries." 

Charlie  continued,  "You  live  in  a  mansion  in  a 
149 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

select  district  on  the  hill,  I  live  in  a  little  cottage 
on  the  edge  of  the  Flats." 

"Over  there  it  was  officers'  quarters  and  bar 
racks,"  said  John,  shortly. 

Charlie  tried  again,  "You  wear  white  collars  and 
tailored  clothes  at  your  work — I  wear  dirty  overalls." 

"We  used  to  call  'em  uniforms,"  barked  John. 

Captain  Charlie  hesitated  a  little  before  he  offered 
his  next  fact,  and  when  he  spoke  it  was  with  a  little 
more  feeling.  "There  are  our  families  to  take  into 
account  too,  John.  Your  sister — well — isn't  it  a  fact 
that  your  sister  would  no  more  think  of  calling  on 
Mary  than  she  would  think  of  putting  on  overalls  and 
going  to  work  in  the  Mill?" 

It  was  John's  turn  now  to  hesitate. 

"Don't  you  see?"  continued  Charlie,  "we  belong 
to  different  worlds,  I  tell  you,  John." 

Deliberately  Helen's  brother  knocked  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe  and  refilled  it  with  thoughtful  care. 

Then  he  said,  gravely,  "Helen  doesn't  realize,  as 
we  do,  old  man.  How  could  she?  The  girl  has 
not  had  a  chance  to  learn  what  the  war  taught  us. 
She  is  exactly  like  thousands  of  other  good  women, 
and  men,  too,  for  that  matter.  They  simply  don't 
understand.  Good  Lord!"  he  exploded,  suddenly, 
"when  I  think  what  a  worthless  snob  I  was  before  I 
enlisted  I  want  to  kick  my  fool  self  to  death.  But 
we  are  drifting  away  from  the  main  thought,"  he 
finished. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  returned  the  other. 

"I  thought  we  were  discussing  the  question  of 
rank,"  said  John. 

150 


COMRADES 


"Well,"  retorted  Charlie,  dryly,  "isn't  that 
exactly  the  whole  question  as  your  sister  sees  it?" 

"You  give  me  a  pain!"  growled  John.  "I'll 
admit  that  Helen,  right  now,  attaches  a  great  deal 
of  importance  to  some  things  that — well,  that 
are  not  so  very  important  after  all.  But  she  is  no 
worse  than  I  was  before  I  learned  better.  And  you 
take  my  word  she'll  learn,  too.  Sister  visits  the  old 
Interpreter  too  often  not  to  absorb  a  few  ideas  that 
she  failed  to  acquire  at  school.  He  will  help  her  to 
see  the  light,  just  as  he  helped  me.  But  for  him,  I 
would  have  been  nothing  but  a  gentleman  slacker 
myself — if  there  is  any  such  animal.  But  what 
under  heaven  has  all  this  to  do  with  our  relation  as 
employer  and  employee  in  the  Mill?  What  effect 
would  Mary  have  had  on  you  over  there  if  she  had 
gone  to  you  with  'Oh,  Charlie  dear,  you  mustn't  go 
out  in  that  dreadful  No  Man's  Land  to-night.  It  is 
so  dirty  and  wet  and  cold.  Remember  that  you  are 
an  officer,  Charlie  dear,  and  let  Private  John  go.": 

Captain  Charlie  laughed — this  new  general  man 
ager  of  the  Mill  was  so  like  the  buddie  he  had  loved  in 

France.  "Do  you  remember  that  night "  he 

began,  but  his  comrade  interrupted  him  rudely. 

"Shut  up!  I've  got  to  get  this  thing  off  my  chest 
and  you've  got  to  hear  me  out.  This  country  of  ours 
started  out  all  right  with  the  proposition  that  all 
men  are  created  free  and  equal.  But  ninety  per 
cent  of  our  troubles  are  caused  by  our  crazy  notions 
as  to  what  that  equality  really  means.  The  rest  of 
our  grief  comes  from  our  fool  claims  to  superiority 
of  one  sort  or  another.  It  looks  to  me  as  though 

151 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

you  and  Helen  agreed  exactly  on  this  question  of 
rank  and  I  am  here  to  tell  you  that  you  are  both 
wrong." 

Captain  Charlie  Martin  sat  up  at  this,  but  before 
he  could  speak  John  shot  a  question  at  him.  "Tell 
me,  when  Private  Ward  saluted  Captain  Martin  as 
the  regulations  provide,  was  the  action  held  by  either 
the  officer  or  the  private  to  be  a  recognition  of  the 
superiority  of  Captain  Martin  or  the  inferiority  of 
Private  Ward — was  it?" 

"Not  that  any  one  could  notice,"  answered  Charlie 
with  a  grin. 

"You  bet  your  life  it  wasn't,"  said  John.  "Well, 
then,"  he  continued,  "what  was  it  that  the  salute 
recognized?" 

"Why,  it  was  the  captain's  rank." 
"Exactly;  and  what  determined  that  rank?" 
"The  number  of  men  he  commanded." 
"That's  it!"  cried  John.     "The  rank  of  the  cap 
tain   represented   the — the" —   he   searched   for   a 
word — "the  oneness  of  all  the  men  in  his  command. 
And  so  you  see  the  thing  that  the  individual  private 
really  saluted  as  superior  to  himself  was  the  oneness 
of  all  his  comrades,  both  privates  and  officers  in  the 
company." 

"Sure,"  said  Charlie,  looking  a  little  puzzled,  as  if 
he  did  not  quite  see  what  the  manager  of  the  Mill 
was  driving  at.  "The  salute  was  merely  a  sign  of 
the  individual's  surrender  of  his  own  personal  will 
to  the  authority  of  the  rank  that  represented  all  his 
fellow  individuals." 

x  Yes,"  said  John,  "and  when  Jack  Pershing  stood 
152 


COMRADES 


up  there  with  the  rest  of  the  kings  and  we  paraded 
past,  were  we  humiliated  because  we  were  not  dressed 
exactly  like  the  reviewing  generals?  We  were  not. 
We  stuck  out  our  chests  and  pulled  in  our  chins  as  if 
the  whole  show  was  framed  to  honor  us.  And  that  is 
exactly  what  it  was,  Charlie,  because  we  were  all 
included  in  Pershing's  rank.  The  army  was  not 
honoring  Pershing  the  man,  it  was  honoring 
itself." 

"Yes,"  said  Charlie,  as  if  he  still  did  not  quite 
grasp  his  comrade's  purpose. 

" Here,"  said  John,  "this  is  the  idea.  You  remem 
ber  how  when  we  were  kids  we  used  to  get  hold  of  an 
old  magnifying  glass  and  use  it  as  a  burning  glass?" 

"I  remember  we  darned  near  set  fire  to  Hank 
Webster's  barn  once,"  smiled  Charlie. 

"Well,"  returned  John,  "think  of  the  army  as  a 
sun,  and  of  every  loyal  individual  soldier,  officer  and 
private  alike,  as  a  ray  of  that  sun  and  there  is  your 
true  equality.  Pershing's  rank  was  simply  the 
burning  glass  that  focused  our  two  million  individual 
rays  to  a  point  of  such  equality  that  they  could  move 
as  one.  And  I  noticed  another  thing  in  that  review, 
too,"  continued  John,  earnestly,  "even  if  I  was  sup 
posed  to  have  my  eyes  front,  I  noticed  that  Gen 
eral  Pershing  saluted  the  colors.  And  that  meant 
simply  this,  that  as  each  individual  soldier  honored 
the  whole  army  in  his  recognition  of  the  general's 
rank,  the  army  itself,  through  its  commander,  hon 
ored  the  greater  oneness  of  the  nation.  And  so 
Foch's  rank  was  a  burning  glass  that  focused  the 
different  allied  nations  into  a  still  greater  oneness,  and 

153 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

drew  their  strength  to  such  a  point  of  equality  that  it 
lighted  a  fire  under  old  Kaiser  Bill." 

"But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  you  and  me 
now?"  demanded  Charlie.  "It  looks  to  me  as 
though  you  are  the  one  that  is  getting  away  from  the 
main  thought." 

"I  am  not,"  returned  John.  "It  has  this  to  do 
with  you  and  me:  Our  little  part  as  a  nation  in  that 
world  job  in  France  is  finished  all  right,  and  the 
national  job  that  we  have  to  tackle  now,  here  at  home, 
is  a  little  different,  but  the  principle  of  unity  involved 
is  exactly  the  same.  Our  everyday  work  can  no 
more  be  done  by  those  who  work  with  their  hands 
alone  than  the  Germans  could  have  been  whipped 
by  privates  alone.  Nor  can  our  industries  be  carried 
on  by  those  who  do  the  planning  and  managing 
alone  any  more  than  the  army  could  have  carried 
out  a  campaign  with  nothing  but  officers." 

"Oh,  I  see  now  what  you  are  getting  at,"  said 
Charlie. 

"  It's  about  tune  that  you  woke  up,"  retorted  John. 

"You  mean,"  continued  Charlie,  carefully,  "that 
just  as  the  unity  of  the  army  was  in  the  differ 
ent  ranks  that  focused  the  individual  soldier  rays 
upon  one  common  purpose,  so  the  true  equality 
of  our  industries  is  possible  only  through  the  dif 
ference  in  rank,  such  as — well,  such  as  yours  and 
mine — manager  and  workman  or  employer  and 
employee." 

"Now  you're  getting  wise,"  cried  John.  "Really 
at  times  you  show  signs  of  almost  human  intelli 
gence." 

154 


COMRADES 


Charlie  returned,  doubtfully,  "How  do  you  sup 
pose  Sam  Whaley  and  a  few  others  I  could  name  in 
our  union  would  take  to  this  equality  stuff  of  yours?  " 

"  And  how  do  you  suppose  Mclver  and  others  like 
him  would  take  to  it?"  retorted  John.  "All  the 
men  in  your  union  are  not  Sam  Whaleys  by  a  long 
shot,  neither  are  all  employers  like  Mclver.  As 
I  remember,  you  had  to  discipline  a  man  now  and 
then  in  Company  K.  And  you  have  heard  of  officers 
being  cashiered,  haven't  you?" 

"That's  all  right,"  returned  the  captain,  "but  how 
will  the  rank  and  file  of  our  industrial  army  as  a 
whole  ever  get  it?" 

For  some  time  John  Ward  did  not  reply  to  this, 
but  sat  brooding  over  the  question,  while  his  former 
superior  officer  waited  expectantly. 

Then  the  manager  said,  earnestly,  "Charlie,  what 
was  it  that  drew  over  four  million  American  citizens 
of  almost  every  known  parentage  from  every  walk  of 
life,  and  made  them  an  army  with  one  purpose? 
And  what  was  it  that  inspired  one  hundred  million 
more  to  back  them? 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  was,"  he  continued,  when  his 
companion  did  not  answer,  "it  was  the  Big  Idea. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  there  were  all  kinds  of  graft  and 
incompetency  and  jealousy  and  mutiny  and  out 
rages.  And  there  were  traitors  and  profiteers  and 
slackers  of  every  sort.  But  the  Big  Idea  that 
focused  the  strength  of  the  nation  as  a  whole,  Charlie, 
was  so  much  bigger  than  any  individual  or  group  that 
it  absorbed  all.  It  took  possession  of  us  all — in 
spired  us  all — dominated  and  drove  us  all,  into  every 

155 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

conceivable  effort  and  sacrifice,  until  it  made  heroism 
a  common  thing.  And  this  Big  Idea  was  so  big 
that  it  not  only  absorbed  disloyalty  and  selfishness  as 
a  great  living  river  takes  in  a  few  drops  of  poison, 
but  it  assimilated,  as  well,  every  brand  of  class  and 
caste.  It  made  no  distinction  between  officer  and 
private,  it  ruled  General  Pershing  and  Private 
Jones  alike.  It  recognized  no  difference  between 
educated  and  uneducated  and  sent  university  pro 
fessors  and  bootblacks  over  the  top  side  by  side. 
And  this  Big  Idea  that  so  focused  the  individual  rays 
of  our  nation  against  German  imperialism  was 
nothing  more  or  less  than  the  idea  of  the  oneness  of  all 
humanity.  It  may  be  lost  in  a  scramble  for  the  spoils 
of  victory,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  the  Big  Idea  that  won 
the  victory  just  the  same." 

John  Ward  was  on  his  feet  now,  pacing  back  and 
forth.  His  face  was  flushed  and  eager,  his  eyes  were 
glowing,  as  he  himself  was  possessed  of  the  Big  Idea 
which  he  strove  to  put  into  words. 

And  Captain  Charlie's  pipe  was  forgotten  as  he 
watched  his  friend  and  listened.  This  John  Ward 
was  a  John  Ward  that  few  people  in  Millsburgh 
knew.  But  Captain  Charlie  knew  him.  Captain 
Charlie  had  seen  him  tested  in  all  the  ways  that  war 
tests  men.  In  cold  and  hunger  and  the  unspeakable 
discomforts  of  mud  and  filth  and  vermin — in  the 
waiting  darkness  when  an  impatient  whisper  or  a 
careless  move  to  ease  overstrained  nerves  meant  a 
deluge  of  fire  and  death — in  the  wild  frenzy  of  actual 
conflict — in  the  madness  of  victory — hi  the  delirium 
of  defeat — in  the  dreary  marking  time — in  the  tense 

156 


COMRADES 


readiness  for  the  charge — in  those  many  moments 
when  death  was  near  enough  to  strip  the  outw^ard 
husks  from  these  two  men  and  leave  their  naked 
souls  face  to  face — Captain  Charlie  had  learned  to 
know  John  Ward. 

11  Do  you  remember  what  the  Interpreter  said  to 
us  the  first  tune  we  went  to  see  him  after  we  got 
home?"  demanded  John. 

Charlie  nodded.  "He  said  for  us  not  to  make  the 
mistake  of  thinking  that  the  war  was  over  just 
because  the  Armistice  was  signed  and  we  were  at 
home  in  Millsburgh  again.  I'm  afraid  a  good  many 
people,  though,  are  making  just  that  mistake." 

"I  didn't  understand  what  our  old  friend  meant 
then,  Charlie,"  continued  John,  "but  I  know  now. 
He  meant  that  the  same  old  fight  between  the  spirit 
of  imperialism  that  seeks  the  selfish  dominion  of  an 
individual  or  class  and  the  spirit  of  democracy  that 
upholds  the  oneness  of  all  for  all,  is  still  on,  right 
here  at  home.  The  President  said  that  the  war 
was  to  make  the  world  safe  for  democracy,  and  there 
are  some  wild  enthusiasts  who  say  that  we  Americans 
won  it." 

"That  'we  won  the  war'  stuff  is  all  bunk,"  inter 
rupted  Charlie,  in  a  tone  of  disgust. 

"  'Bunk'  is  right,"  agreed  John.  "The  old  A.  E.  F. 
did  have  a  hand,  though,  in  putting  a  crimp  in  the 
Kaiser's  little  plan  for  acquiring  title  to  the  whole 
human  race  for  himself  and  family.  But  if  the 
American  people  don't  wake  up  to  the  fact  that  the 
same  identical  principles  of  human  right  and  human 
liberty  that  sent  us  to  France  are  involved  in  our 

157 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

industrial  controversies  here  at  home,  we  might 
as  well  have  saved  ourselves  the  trouble  of  going 
over  there  at  all." 

"That  is  all  true  enough,"  agreed  Captain  Char 
lie,  "but  what  is  going  to  wake  us  up?  What  is 
going  to  send  us  as  a  nation  against  the  Kaiser  Bills 
of  capital  and  the  Kaiser  Bills  of  labor,  or,  if  you 
like  it  better,  the  imperialistic  employers  and  the 
equally  imperialistic  employees?" 

John  Ward  fairly  shouted  his  answer,  "The  Big 
Idea,  my  boy — the  same  Big  Idea  that  sent  us  to 
war  against  imperialism  over  there  will  wake  us 
up  to  drive  the  spirit  of  imperialism  out  of  our 
American  industries  here  at  home." 

Charlie  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  "It  was  dif 
ferent  during  the  World  War,  John.  Then  the  Big 
Idea  was  held  up  before  the  people  to  the  exclusion 
of  everything  else.  When  we  think  of  the  speeches 
and  parades  and  rallies  and  sermons  and  books  and 
newspapers  and  pictures  and  songs  that  were  used 
in  the  appeal  to  our  patriotism  and  our  common 
humanity,  it  was  no  wonder  that  we  all  felt  the  pull 
of  it  all.  But  no  one  now  is  saying  anything  about 
the  Big  Idea,  except  for  an  occasional  paragraph  here 
and  there.  And  certainly  no  one  is  making  much 
noise  about  applying  it  in  our  industries." 

"Yes,  I  know  we  can't  expect  any  such  hurrah 
as  we  had  when  men  were  needed  to  die  for  the  cause 
in  a  foreign  land.  You  go  to  France  and  get  shot 
for  humanity  and  you  are  a  hero.  Stay  at  home  and 
sweat  for  the  same  cause  and  you  are  a  nobody. 
From  the  publicity  point  of  view,  there  seems  to  be  a 

158 


COMRADES 


lot  of  difference  between  a  starving  baby  in  Belgium 
and  a  starving  kid  in  our  Millsburgh  Flats.  But 
just  the  same  it  is  the  Big  Idea  that  will  save  us  from 
the  dangers  that  are  threatening  our  industries  and, 
through  our  industries,  menacing  the  very  life  of  our 
nation." 

"But  how  will  the  people  get  it,  John?" 
"I  don't  know  how  it  will  come;  but,  somehow, 
the  appeal  must  be  made  to  the  loyal  citizens  of 
this  nation  in  behalf  of  the  humanity  that  is  de 
pendent  for  life  itself  upon  our  industries,  exactly  as 
the  appeal  was  made  in  behalf  of  the  humanity  that 
looked  to  us  for  help  in  time  of  war.  We  must,  as  a 
nation,  learn,  somehow,  to  feel  our  work  as  we 
felt  our  war.  The  same  ideals  of  patriotism  and 
sacrifice  and  heroism  that  were  so  exalted  in  the  war 
must  be  held  up  in  our  everyday  work.  We  must 
learn  to  see  our  individual  jobs  in  the  industrial 
organizations  of  our  country  as  we  saw  our  places 
in  the  nation's  army.  As  a  people  we  must  grasp  the 
mighty  fact  that  humanity  is  the  issue  of  our  mills 
and  shops  and  factories  and  mines,  exactly  as  it 
was  the  issue  of  our  campaigns  in  France.  America, 
Charlie,  has  not  only  to  face  in  her  industries  the  same 
spirit  of  imperialism  that  we  fought  in  France,  but 
she  has  to  contend  with  the  same  breed  of  disloyal 
grafters,  profiteers  and  slackers  that  would  have 
betrayed  us  during  the  war.  And  these  traitors 
to  our  industries  must  be  branded  wherever  they  are 
found — among  the  business  forces  or  in  the  ranks  of 
labor,  in  our  schools  and  churches  or  on  our  farms. 
11  The  individual's  attitude  toward  the  industries 
159 


of  this  nation  must  be  a  test  of  his  loyal  citizenship 
just  as  a  man's  attitude  toward  our  army  was  a  test. 
And  Americans  dare  not  continue  to  ignore  the  dan 
ger  that  lies  in  the  work  of  those  emissaries  who  are 
seeking  to  weaken  the  loyalty  of  our  workmen  and 
who  by  breeding  class  hatred  and  strife  in  our  indus 
tries  are  trying  to  bring  about  the  downfall  of  our 
government  and  replace  the  stars  and  stripes  with 
the  flag  that  is  as  foreign  to  our  American  independ 
ence  as  the  flag  of  the  German  Kaiser  himself." 

Captain  Charlie  said,  slowly,  "That  is  all  true, 
John,  but  at  the  same  tune  you  and  I  know  that  there 
is  no  finer  body  of  loyal  citizens  anywhere  in  the 
world  than  the  great  army  of  our  American  workmen. 
And  we  know,  too,  that  the  great  army  of  our  Amer 
ican  business  men  are  just  as  fine  and  true  and  loyal." 

"Exactly,"  cried  John,  "but  if  these  loyal  Amer 
ican  citizens  who  work  with  their  hands  in  the  Mill 
and  these  loyal  citizens  who  work  in  the  office  of  the 
Mill  don't  hold  together,  in  the  same  spirit  of  com 
radeship  that  united  them  in  the  war,  to  defend  our 
industries  against  both  the  imperialism  of  capital 
and  the  equally  dangerous  imperialism  of  labor,  we 
may  as  well  run  up  a  new  flag  at  Washington  and 
be  done  with  it." 

"You  are  right,  of  course,  John,"  said  Captain 
Charlie,  "but  how?" 

"You  and  I  may  not  know  how,"  retorted  the 
other,  "any  more  than  we  knew  how  the  war  was 
going  to  be  won  when  we  enlisted.  But  we  do  know 
our  little  parts  right  here  hi  Millsburgh  clear  enough. 
As  I  see  it,  it  is  up  to  us  to  carry  the  torch  of  Flanders 

160 


COMRADES 


fields  into  the  field  of  our  industries  right  here  in  our 
own  home  town." 

He  paced  to  and  fro  without  speaking  for  a  little 
while,  the  other  watching  him,  waited. 

"Of  course,"  said  John  at  last,  "a  lot  of  people 
will  call  us  fanatics  and  cranks  and  idealists  for  say 
ing  that  the  Big  Idea  of  the  war  must  dominate  us  in 
our  industrial  life.  And,  of  course,  it  is  going  to  be 
a  darned  sight  harder  in  some  ways  to  stand  for  the 
principles  of  our  comradeship  here  at  home  than  it 
was  over  there.  'Don't  go  out  into  No  Man's 
Land  to-night,  Captain  Charlie,  it  is  so  dirty  and 
dark  and  wet  and  cold  and  dangerous;  let  Private 
John  go.'  But  the  darned  fool,  Captain  Charlier 
went  into  the  cold  and  the  wet  and  the  danger 
because  he  and  Private  John  were  comrades  in  the 
oneness  of  the  Big  Idea." 

His  voice  grew  a  little  bitter  as  he  finished. 
"Don't  go  into  that  awful  Mill,  Captain  John,  it  is  so 
dirty  and  dangerous  and  you  will  get  so  tired;  let 
Private  Charlie  do  the  work  while  you  stay  at  home 
and  play  tennis  or  bridge  or  attend  to  the  social 
duties  of  your  superior  class." 

With  ringing  earnestness  Charlie  Martin  added, 
"But  the  darned  fool  fanatic  and  idealist  Captain 
John  will  go  just  the  same  because  he  and  Private 
Charlie  are  comrades  in  the  oneness  of  the  Big  Idea 
of  the  Mill  here  at  home." 

For  a  few  moments  John  stood  looking  into  the 
distance  as  one  who  sees  a  vision,  then  he  said, 
slowly,  "And  the  Big  Idea  will  win  again,  old  man, 
as  it  has  always  won;  and  the  traitors  and  slackers 

161 


HELEN   OF   THE  OLD   HOUSE 

and  yellow  dogs  will  be  saved  with  the  rest,  I  sup 
pose,  just  as  they  always  have  been  saved  from  them 
selves." 

He  turned  to  see  his  comrade  standing  at  attention. 
Gravely  Captain  Charlie  saluted. 

Perhaps  Jake  Vodell  was  right  in  believing  that 
the  friendship  of  John  Ward  and  Charlie  Martin 
was  dangerous  to  his  cause  in  Millsburgh. 

The  Vodells,  who  with  their  insidious  propa 
ganda,  menace  America  through  her  industrial 
troubles,  will  be  powerless,  indeed,  when  American 
employers  and  employees  can  think  in  terms  of 
industrial  comradeship. 


CHAPTER  XII 

TWO  SIDES  OF  A  QUESTION 

THAT  evening  the  new  manager  of  the  Mill 
stayed  for  supper  at  the  Martin  cottage. 
It  was  the  first  time  since  he  had  left  the  old 
house  next  door  for  his  school  in  a  distant  city  that 
he  had  eaten  a  meal  with  these  friends  of  his  boy 
hood. 

Perhaps  because  their  minds  were  so  filled  with 
things  they  could  not  speak,  their  talk  was  a  little 
restrained.  Captain  Charlie  attempted  a  jest  or 
two;  John  did  his  best,  and  Mary  helped  them  all 
she  could.  The  old  workman,  save  for  a  kindly 
word  now  and  then  to  make  the  son  of  Adam  Ward 
feel  at  home,  was  silent. 

But  when  the  supper  was  over  and  the  twilight 
was  come  and  they  had  carried  their  chairs  out  on 
the  lawn  where,  in  their  boy  and  girl  days  they 
had  romped  away  so  many  twilight  hours,  the  weight 
of  the  present  was  lifted.  While  Peter  Martin 
smoked  his  pipe  and  listened,  the  three  made  merry 
over  the  adventures  of  their  childhood,  until  the 
old  house  next  door,  so  deserted  and  forlorn,  must 
have  felt  that  the  days  so  long  past  were  come 
again. 

It  was  rather  late  when  John  finally  said  good 
night.  As  he  drove  homeward  he  told  himself  many 

163 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

times  that  it  had  been  one  of  the  happiest  evenings 
he  had  ever  spent.  He  wondered  why. 

The  big  house  on  the  hill,  as  he  approached  the 
iron  gates,  seemed  strangely  grim  and  forbidding. 
The  soft  darkness  of  the  starlit  night  invited  him 
to  stay  out  of  doors.  Reluctantly,  half  in  mind  to 
turn  back,  he  drove  slowly  up  the  long  driveway. 
The  sight  of  Mclver's  big  car  waiting  decided  him. 
He  did  not  wish  to  meet  the  factory  owner  that 
evening.  He  would  wait  a  while  before  going  in 
doors.  Finding  a  comfortable  lawn  chair  not  far 
from  the  front  of  the  house,  he  filled  his  pipe. 

As  he  sat  there,  many  things  unbidden  and  ap 
parently  without  purpose  passed  in  leisurely  suc 
cession  through  his  mind.  Bits  of  boyhood  experi 
ences,  long  forgotten  and  called  up  now,  no  doubt, 
by  his  evening  at  the  cottage  that  had  once  been  as 
much  his  home  as  the  old  house  itself.  How  insep 
arable  the  four  children  had  been!  Fragments  of 
his  army  life — what  an  awakening  it  had  all  been 
for  him!  The  coming  struggle  with  the  followers 
of  Jake  Vodell — his  new  responsibilities.  He  had 
feared  that  his  comradeship  with  Charlie  might  be 
weakened — well,  that  was  settled  now.  He  was 
glad  they  had  had  their  talk. 

The  door  of  the  house  opened  and  Mclver  came 
down  the  steps  to  his  automobile.  For  a  moment 
Helen  stood  framed  against  the  bright  light  of  the 
interior,  then  the  car  rolled  away.  The  door  was 
closed. 

John  recalled  what  his  father  had  said.  Would  his 
sister  finally  accept  Mclver?  For  a  long  time  the 

164 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A   QUESTION 

factory  owner  had  been  pressing  his  suit.  Would 
she  marry  him  at  last?  A  combination  of  the  Ward 
Mill  and  the  Mclver  factory  would  be  a  mighty  power 
in  the  manufacturing  world.  He  dismissed  the 
thought.  He  wished  that  Helen  were  more  like 
Mary.  His  sister  was  a  wonderful  woman  in  his 
eyes — he  was  proud  of  her;  but  again  his  mind  went 
back  to  the  workman's  home  and  to  his  happy  even 
ing  there.  His  own  home  was  so  different.  His 
mother!  What  a  splendid  old  man  Uncle  Peter 
was! 

John  Ward's  musings  were  suddenly  disturbed 
by  a  faint  sound.  Turning  his  head,  he  saw  the 
form  of  a  man,  dark  and  shadowy  in  the  faint  light 
of  the  stars,  moving  toward  the  house.  John  held 
his  place  silently,  alert  and  ready.  Cautiously  the 
dark  form  crept  forward  with  frequent  pauses  as  if 
to  look  about.  Then,  as  the  figure  stood  for  a 
moment  silhouetted  against  a  lighted  window  of  the 
house,  John  recognized  his  father. 

At  the  involuntary  exclamation  which  escaped  the 
younger  man  Adam  whirled  as  if  to  run. 

John  spoke,  quietly,  "That  you,  father?" 

The  man  came  quickly  to  his  son.  With  an  odd, 
nervous  laugh,  he  said,  "Lord,  boy,  but  you  startled 
me!  What  are  you  doing  out  here  at  this  time  of 
the  night?" 

"Just  enjoying  a  quiet  smoke  and  looking  at  the 
stars,"  John  answered,  easily. 

It  was  evident  that  Adam  Ward  was  intensely 
excited.  His  voice  shook  with  nervous  agitation 
and  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  peered  into  the 

165 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

surrounding  darkness  as  if  dreading  some  lurking 
danger. 

"I  couldn't  sleep,"  he  muttered,  in  a  low  cautious 
tone.  "  Dreams — nothing  in  them  of  course — all 
foolishness — nerves  are  all  shot  to  pieces." 

He  dropped  down  on  the  seat  beside  his  son,  then 
sprang  to  his  feet  again.  "Did  you  hear  that?" 
he  whispered,  and  stooping  low,  he  tried  to  see  into 
the  shadows  of  the  shrubbery  behind  John. 

The  younger  man  spoke  soothingly.  "  There  is 
nothing  here,  father,  sit  down  and  take  it  easy." 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about," 
retorted  Adam  Ward.  "I  tell  you  they  are  after 
me — there's  no  telling  what  they  will  do — poison — 
a  gun — infernal  machines  through  the  mail — bomb. 
No  one  has  any  sympathy  with  me,  not  even  my 
family.  All  these  years  I  have  worked  for  what  I 
have  and  now  nobody  cares.  All  they  want  is  what 
they  can  get  out  of  me.  And  you — you'll  find  out! 
I  saw  your  car  in  front  of  Martin's  again  this  evening. 
You'd  better  keep  away  from  there.  Peter  Martin 
is  dangerous.  He  would  take  everything  I  have 
away  from  me  if  he  could." 

John  tried  in  vain  to  calm  his  father,  but  in  a 
voice  harsh  with  passion  he  continued,  and  as  he 
spoke,  he  moved  his  hands  and  arms  constantly  with 
excited  and  vehement  gestures. 

"That  process  is  mine,  I  tell  you.  The  best  law 
yers  I  could  get  have  fixed  up  the  patents.  Pete 
Martin  is  an  old  fool.  I'll  see  him  in  his  grave  be 
fore "  he  checked  himself  as  if  fearing  his  own 

anger  would  betray  him.  As  he  paced  up  and  down 

166 


TWO   SIDES   OF  A  QUESTION 

he  muttered  to  himself,  "I  built  up   the  business 
and  I  can  tear  it  down.   I'll  blow  up  the  Mill.  I— 
his    voice    trailed    off    into    hoarse    unintelligible 
sounds. 

John  Ward  could  not  speak.  He  believed  that  his 
father's  strange  fears  for  the  loss  of  his  property  were 
due  to  nothing  more  than  his  nervous  trouble.  Peter 
Martin's  name,  which  Adam  in  his  most  excited 
moments  nearly  always  mentioned  in  this  manner, 
meant  nothing  more  to  John  than  the  old  work 
man's  well-known  leadership  in  the  Mill  workers' 
union. 

Suddenly  Adam  turned  again  to  his  son,  and 
coming  close  asked  in  a  whisper,  "John — I — is 
there  really  a  hell,  John?  I  mean  such  as  the 
preachers  used  to  tell  about.  Does  a  man  go  from 
this  life  to  the  horrors  of  eternal  punishment? 
Does  he,  son?" 

"Why,  father,  I "  John  started  to  reply,  but 

Adam  interrupted  him  with,  "Never  mind;  you 
wouldn't  know  any  more  than  any  one  else  about  it. 
The  preachers  ought  to  know,  though.  Seems  like 
there  must  be  some  way  of  finding  out.  I 
dreamed — 

As  if  he  had  forgotten  the  presence  of  his  son,  he 
suddenly  started  away  toward  the  house. 

Not  until  John  Ward  had  assured  himself  that  his 
father  was  safely  in  his  room  and  apparently  sleeping 
at  last,  did  he  go  to  his  own  apartment. 

But  the  new  manager  of  the  Mill  did  not  at  once 
retire.  He  did  not  even  turn  on  the  lights.  For  a 
long  time  he  stood  at  the  darkened  window,  looking 

167 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

out  into  the  night.  "What  was  it?"  he  asked 
himself  again  and  again.  "What  was  it  his  father 
feared?" 

In  the  distance  he  could  see  a  tiny  spot  of  light 
shining  high  against  the  shadowy  hillside  above  the 
darkness  of  the  Flats.  It  was  a  lighted  window  hi 
the  Interpreter's  hut. 

As  they  sat  in  the  night  on  the  balcony  porch, 
Jake  Vodell  said  harshly  to  the  old  basket  maker, 
"You  shall  tell  me  about  this  Adam  Ward,  com 
rade.  I  hear  many  things.  From  what  you  say  of 
your  friendship  with  him  in  the  years  when  he  was  a 
workman  in  the  Mill  and  from  your  friendship  with 
his  son  and  daughter  you  must  know  better  than 
any  one  else.  Is  it  true  that  it  was  his  new  patented 
process  that  made  him  so  rich?" 

"The  new  process  was  undoubtedly  the  founda 
tion  of  his  success,"  answered  the  Interpreter, 
"but  it  was  the  man's  peculiar  genius  that  enabled 
him  to  recognize  the  real  value  of  the  process  and  to 
foresee  how  it  would  revolutionize  the  industry. 
And  it  was  his  ability  as  an  organizer  and  manager, 
together  with  his  capacity  for  hard  work,  that 
enabled  him  to  realize  his  vision.  It  is  easily  prob 
able  that  not  one  of  his  fellow  workmen  could  have 
developed  and  made  use  of  the  discovery  as  he 
has." 

Jake  Vodell's  black  brows  were  raised  with  quick 
ened  interest.  "This  new  process  was  a  discovery 
then?  It  was  not  the  result  of  research  and  experi 
ment?" 

168 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A  QUESTION 

The  Interpreter  seemed  to  answer  reluctantly. 
"It  was  an  accidental  discovery,  as  many  such  things 
are." 

The  agitator  must  have  noticed  that  the  old 
basket  maker  did  not  wish  to  talk  of  Adam  Ward's 
patented  process,  but  he  continued  his  questions. 

"Peter  Martin  was  working  in  the  Mill  at  the  time 
of  this  wonderful  discovery,  was  he?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh!  and  Peter  and  Adam  were  friends,  too?" 

"Yes." 

The  Interpreter's  guest  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  scowled  his  righteous  indignation.  "And  all 
these  years  that  Adam  Ward  has  been  building  up 
this  Mill  that  grinds  the  bodies  and  souls  of  his 
fellow  men  into  riches  for  himself  and  makes  from  the 
life  blood  of  his  employees  the  dollars  that  his  son 
and  daughter  spend  in  wicked  luxury — all  these 
years  his  old  friend  Peter  Martin  has  toiled  for  him 
exactly  as  the  rest  of  his  slaves  have  toiled.  Bah! 
And  still  the  priests  and  preachers  make  the  people 
believe  there  is  a  God  of  Justice." 

The  Interpreter  replied,  slowly,  "It  may  be  after 
all,  sir,  that  Peter  Martin  is  richer  than  Adam 
Ward." 

"How  richer?"  demanded  the  other.  "When  he 
lives  in  a  poor  little  house,  with  no  servants,  no  auto 
mobiles,  no  luxuries  of  any  kind,  and  must  work 
every  day  in  the  Mill  with  his  son,  while  his  daughter 
Mary  slaves  at  the  housekeeping  for  her  father  and 
brother!  Look  at  Adam  Ward  and  his  great  castle 
of  a  home — look  at  his  possessions — at  the  fortune  he 

169 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

will  leave  his  children.    Bah!    Mr.  Interpreter,  do 
not  talk  to  me  such  foolishness." 

"Is  it  foolishness  to  count  happiness  as  wealth?" 
asked  the  Interpreter. 

"Happiness?"  growled  the  other.  "Is  there  such 
a  thing?  What  does  the  laboring  man  know  of 
happiness?" 

And  the  Interpreter  answered,  "Peter  Martin,  in 
the  honorable  peace  and  contentment  of  his  useful 
years,  and  in  the  love  of  his  family  and  friends,  is  the 
happiest  man  I  have  ever  known.  While  Adam 
Ward- 
Jake  Vodell  sprang  to  his  feet  as  if  the  Inter 
preter's  words  exhausted  his  patience,  while  he  spoke 
as  one  moved  by  a  spirit  of  contemptuous  intoler 
ance.  "You  talk  like  a  sentimental  old  woman.  How 
is  it  possible  that  there  should  be  happiness  and  con 
tentment  anywhere  when  all  is  injustice  and  slav 
ery  under  this  abominable  capitalist  system?  First 
we  shall  have  liberty — freedom — equality — then  per 
haps  we  may  begin  to  talk  of  happiness.  Is  Sam 
Whaley  and  his  friends  who  live  down  there  in  their 
miserable  hovels — is  Sam  Whaley  happy?" 

"  Sam  Whaley  has  had  exactly  the  same  oppor 
tunity  for  happiness  that  Peter  Martin  has  had," 
answered  the  Interpreter. 

"Opportunity,  yes,"  snarled  the  other.  "Op 
portunity  to  cringe  and  whine  and  beg  his  master 
for  a  chance  to  live  like  a  dog  in  a  kennel,  while  he 
slaves  to  make  his  owners  rich.  Do  you  know  what 
this  man  Mclver  says?  I  will  tell  you,  Mr.  Inter 
preter — you  who  prattle  about  a  working  man's 

170 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A  QUESTION 

happiness.  Mclver  says  that  the  laboring  classes 
should  be  driven  to  their  work  with  bayonets — that 
if  his  factory  employees  strike  they  will  be  forced 
to  submission  by  the  starvation  of  their  women  and 
children.  Happiness!  You  shall  see  what  we  will 
do  to  this  man  Mclver  before  we  talk  of  happiness. 
And  you  shall  see  what  will  happen  to  this  castle 
of  Adam  Ward's  and  to  this  Mill  that  he  says  is  his." 

"I  think  I  should  tell  you,  sir,"  said  the  Inter- 
preter,  calmly,  "that  in  your  Millsburgh  campaign, 
at  least,  you  are  already  defeated." 

"Defeated!  Hah!  That  is  good!  And  who  do  you 
say  has  defeated  me,  before  I  have  commenced  even 
to  fight,  heh?" 

"You  are  defeated  by  Adam  Ward's  retirement 
from  business,"  came  the  strange  reply. 


BOOK  II 
THE  TWO  HELENS 

"  0  Guns,  fall  silent  till  the  dead  men  hear 
Above  their  heads  the  legions  pressing  on: 

***** 

Bid  them  be  patient,  and  some  day,  anon, 
They  shall  feel  earth  enwrapt  in  silence  deep; 

Shall  greet,  in  wonderment,  the  quiet  dawn, 
And  in  content  may  turn  them  to  their  sleep" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  AWAKENING 

IMMEDIATELY  following  that  day  when  she 
had  watched  her  father  from  the  arbor  and  had 
talked  with  Bobby  and  Maggie  Whaley  on  the 
old  road,  Helen  Ward  had  thrown  herself  into  the 
social  activities  of  her  circle  as  if  determined  to  find, 
in  those  interests,  a  cure  for  her  discontent  and 
unhappiness. 

Several  tunes  she  called  for  a  few  minutes  at  the 
little  hut  on  the  cliff.  But  she  did  not  again  talk 
of  herself  or  of  her  father  to  the  old  basket  maker  as 
she  had  talked  that  day  when  she  first  met  the 
children  from  the  Flats.  Two  or  three  times  she 
saw  the  children.  But  she  passed  them  quickly  by 
with  scarcely  a  nod  of  greeting.  And  yet,  the 
daughter  of  Adam  Ward  felt  with  increasing  cer 
tainty  that  she  could  never  be  content  with  the 
busy  nothingness  which  absorbed  the  lives  of  so 
many  of  her  friends.  Her  father,  since  his  retire 
ment,  seemed  a  little  better.  But  she  could  not 
put  out  of  her  mind  the  memory  of  what  she  had 
seen.  For  her,  the  dreadful  presence  of  the  hidden 
thing  always  attended  him.  Because  she  could  not 
banish  the  feeling  and  because  there  was  nothing  she 
could  do,  she  sought  relief  by  escaping  from  the 
house  as  often  as  possible  on  the  plea  of  social  duties. 

There  were  times  when  the  young  woman  thought 
175 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

that  her  mother  knew.  At  times  she  fancied  that 
her  brother  half  guessed  the  secret  that  so  over 
shadowed  their  home.  But  Mrs.  Ward  and  her 
children  alike  shrank  from  anything  approaching 
frankness  hi  mentioning  the  Mill  owner's  condition. 
And  so  they  went  on,  feeling  the  hidden  thing, 
dreading  they  knew  not  what — deceiving  themselves 
and  each  other  with  hopes  that  in  their  hearts 
they  knew  were  false. 

The  mother,  brave,  loyal  soul,  seeing  her 
daughter's  unhappiness  and  wishing  to  protect  her 
from  the  thing  that  had  so  saddened  her  own  life, 
encouraged  Helen  to  find  what  relief  she  could  in  the 
pleasures  that  kept  her  so  many  hours  from  home. 
John,  occupied  by  the  exacting  duties  of  his  new 
position,  needed  apparently  nothing  more.  Indeed, 
to  Helen,  her  brother's  attitude  toward  his  work, 
his  views  of  life  and  his  increasing  neglect  of  what 
she  called  the  obligations  of  their  position  in  Mills- 
burgh,  were  more  and  more  puzzling.  She  had 
thought  that  with  John's  advancement  to  the  general 
managership  of  the  Mill  his  peculiar  ideas  would  be 
modified.  But  his  promotion  seemed  to  have  made 
no  sign  of  a  change  in  his  conception  of  the  relation 
ship  between  employer  and  employee,  or  in  his 
attitude  toward  the  unions  or  toward  the  industrial 
situation  as  a  whole. 

Of  one  thing  Helen  was  certain — her  brother  had 
found  that  which  she,  hi  her  own  life,  was  somehow 
missing.  And  so  the  young  woman  observed  her 
brother  with  increasing  interest  and  a  growing  feel 
ing  that  approached  envy.  At  every  opportunity 

176 


THE  AWAKENING 


she  led  him  to  talk  of  his  work  or  rather  of  his  atti 
tude  toward  his  work,  and  encouraged  him  to 
express  the  convictions  that  had  so  changed  his  own 
life  and  that  were  so  foreign  to  the  tenets  of  Helen  and 
her  class.  And  always  their  talks  ended  with  John's 
advice:  "Go  ask  the  Interpreter;  he  knows;  he 
will  make  it  so  much  clearer  than  I  can." 

But  with  all  John's  absorbing  interest  in  his  work 
and  in  the  general  industrial  situation  of  Millsburgh, 
which  under  the  growing  influence  of  Jake  Vodell 
was  becoming  every  day  more  difficult  and  danger 
ous,  the  general  manager  could  not  escape  the 
memories  of  that  happy  evening  at  the  Martin  cot 
tage.  The  atmosphere  of  this  workman's  home  was 
so  different  from  the  atmosphere  of  his  own  home  in 
the  big  house  on  the  hill.  There  was  a  peace,  a 
contentment,  a  feeling  of  security  in  the  little  cottage 
that  was  sadly  wanting  in  the  more  pretentious 
residence.  Following,  as  it  did,  his  father's  retire 
ment  from  the  Mill  with  his  own  promotion  to  the 
rank  of  virtual  ownership  and  his  immediate  talk 
with  Captain  Charlie,  that  evening  had  reestablished 
for  him,  as  it  were,  the  relationship  and  charm  of 
his  boyhood  days.  It  was  as  though,  having  been 
submitted  to  a  final  test,  he  was  now  admitted  once 
more,  without  reserve,  to  the  innermost  circle  of  their 
friendship. 

On  his  way  to  and  from  his  office  he  nearly  always, 
now,  drove  past  the  Martin  cottage.  The  distance 
was  greater,  it  is  true,  but  John  thought  that  the 
road  was  enough  better  to  more  than  make  up  for 
that.  Besides,  he  really  did  enjoy  the  drive  down  the 

177 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

tree-arched  street  and  past  the  old  house.  It  was 
all  so  rich  in  memories  of  his  happy  boyhood,  and 
sometimes — nearly  always,  in  fact — he  would  catch 
a  glimpse  of  Mary  among  her  flowers  or  on  the 
porch  or  perhaps  at  the  gate. 

Occasionally  this  young  manager  of  the  Mill,  with 
his  strange  ideas  of  industrial  comradeship,  found  it 
necessary  to  spend  an  evening  with  these  workmen 
who  were  leaders  in  the  union  that  was  held  by  his 
father  and  by  Mclver  to  be  a  menace  to  the  employer 
class.  It  in  no  way  detracted  from  the  value  of 
these  consultations  with  Captain  Charlie  and  his 
father  that  Mary  was  always  present.  In  fact, 
Mary  herself  was  in  a  position  materially  to  help 
John  Ward  in  his  study  of  the  industrial  problems 
that  were  of  such  vital  interest  to  him.  No  one 
knew  better  than  did  Pete  Martin's  daughter  the 
actual  living  conditions  of  the  class  of  laboring  people 
who  dwelt  in  the  Flats.  Certainly,  as  he  watched  the 
progress  of  Jake  Vodell's  missionary  work  among 
them,  John  could  not  ignore  these  Sam  Whaleys  of 
the  industries  as  an  important  factor  in  his  problem. 

So  it  happened,  curiously  enough,  that  Helen 
herself  was  led  to  call  at  the  little  home  next  door 
to  the  old  house  where  she  had  lived  in  those  years 
of  her  happy  girlhood. 

Helen  was  downtown  that  afternoon  on  an  unim 
portant  shopping  errand.  She  had  left  the  store 
after  making  her  purchases  and  was  about  to  enter 
her  automobile,  when  Mclver,  who  chanced  to  be 
passing,  stopped  to  greet  her. 

178 


THE  AWAKENING 


There  was  no  doubting  the  genuineness  of  the 
man's  pleasure  in  the  incident,  nor  was  Helen  herself 
at  all  displeased  at  this  break  hi  what  had  been,  so 
far,  a  rather  dull  day. 

"  And  what  brings  you  down  here  at  this  unreason 
able  hour?"  he  asked;  "on  Saturday,  too?  Don't 
you  know  that  there  is  a  tennis  match  on  at  the 
club?" 

"I  didn't  seem  to  care  for  the  tennis  to-day  some 
how,"  she  returned.  "  Mother  wanted  some  things 
from  Harrison's,  so  I  came  downtown  to  get  them 
for  her." 

He  caught  a  note  in  her  voice  that  made  him  ask 
with  grave  concern,  "How  is  your  father,  Helen?" 

She  answered,  quickly,  "Oh,  father  is  doing  nicely, 
thank  you."  Then,  with  a  cheerfulness  that  was  a 
little  forced,  she  asked  in  turn,  "And  why  have  you 
deserted  the  club  yourself  this  afternoon?" 

"Business,"  he  returned.  "There  will  be  no  more 
Saturday  afternoons  off  for  me  for  some  tune  to 
come,  I  fear."  Then  he  added,  quickly,  "But  look 
here,  Helen,  there  is  no  need  of  our  losing  the  day 
altogether.  Send  your  man  on,  and  come  with  me 
for  a  little  spin.  The  roadster  is  in  the  next  block. 
I'll  take  you  home  in  an  hour  and  get  on  back  to  my 
office." 

Helen  hesitated. 

"  The  ride  will  do  you  good." 

"Sure  you  can  spare  the  tune?" 

"Sure.     It  will  do  me  good,  too." 

"And  you're  not  asking  me  just  to  be  nice — you 
really  want  me?  " 

179 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

"Don't  you  know  by  this  time  whether  I  want 
you  or  not?"  he  returned,  in  a  tone  that  brought  the 
color  to  her  cheeks.  ' '  Please  come ! ' ' 

"All  right,"  she  agreed. 

When  they  were  seated  in  Mclver's  roadster,  she 
added,  "I  really  can't  deny  myself  the  thrilling 
triumph  of  taking  a  business  man  away  from  his  work 
daring  office  hours." 

"You  take  my  thoughts  away  from  my  work  a 
great  many  times  during  office  hours,  Helen,"  he 
retorted,  as  the  car  moved  away.  "Must  I  wait 
much  longer  for  my  answer,  dear?" 

She  replied,  hurriedly,  "Please,  Jim,  not  that 
to-day.  Let's  not  think  about  it  even." 

"All  right,"  he  returned,  grimly.  "I  just  want 
you'to  know,  though,  that  I  am  waiting." 

"I  know,  Jim — and — and  you  are  perfectly  won 
derful  but Oh,  can't  we  forget  it  just  for  an 

hour?" 

As  if  giving  himself  to  her  mood,  Mclver's  voice 
and  manner  changed.  "Do  you  mind  if  we  stop 
at  the  factory  just  a  second?  I  want  to  leave 
some  papers.  Then  we  can  go  on  up  the  river 
drive." 

An  hour  later  they  were  returning,  and  because 
it  was  the  prettiest  street  in  that  part  of  Millsburgh, 
Mclver  chose  the  way  that  would  take  them  past 
the  old  house. 

John  Ward's  machine  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
Martin  cottage. 

Mclver  saw  it  and  looked  quickly  at  his  com- 
180 


THE  AWAKENING 


panion.  There  was  no  need  to  ask  if  Helen  had 
recognized  her  brother's  car. 

The  factory  owner  considered  the  new  manager  of 
the  Mill  a  troublesome  obstacle  in  his  own  plans  for 
making  war  on  the  unions.  He  felt,  too,  that  with 
John  now  in  control  of  the  business,  his  chances  of 
bringing  about  the  combination  of  the  two  indus 
tries  were  materially  lessened.  Pie  had  wondered, 
at  tunes,  if  it  was  not  her  brother's  influence  that 
caused  Helen  to  put  off  giving  him  her  final  answer 
to  his  suit. 

When  he  saw  that  Helen  had  recognized  John's 
car,  he  remarked,  with  an  insinuating  laugh,  "  Evi 
dently  I  am  not  the  only  business  man  who  can  be 
lured  from  his  office  during  working  hours." 

"Jim,  how  can  you?"  she  protested.  "You 
know  John  is  there  on  business  to  see  Charlie  or  his 
father." 

"It  is  a  full  hour  yet  before  quitting  time  at  the 
Mill,"  he  returned. 

She  had  no  reply  to  this,  and  the  man  continued 
with  a  touch  of  malicious  satisfaction,  "After  all, 
Helen,  John  is  human,  you  know,  and  old  Pete  Mar 
tin's  daughter  is  a  mighty  attractive  girl." 

Helen  Ward's  cheeks  were  red,  but  she  managed 
to  control  her  voice,  as  she  said,  "Just  what  do  you 
mean  by  that,  Jim?" 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  really  do  not  know?"  he 
countered. 

"I  know  that  my  brother,  foolish  as  he  may  be 
about  some  things,  would  never  think  of  paying 

181 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

serious  attention  to  the  daughter  of  one  of  his 
employees,"  she  retorted,  warmly. 

"That  is  exactly  the  situation,"  he  returned. 
"No  one  believes  for  a  moment  that  the  affair  is 
serious  on  John's  part." 

The  color  was  gone  from  Helen's  face  now.  "I 
think  you  have  said  too  much  not  to  go  on  now,  Jim. 
Do  you  mean  that  people  are  saying  that  John  is 
amusing  himself  with  Mary  Martin?" 

"Well,"  he  returned,  coolly,  "what  else  can  the 
people  think  when  they  see  him  going  there  so  often ; 
when  they  see  the  two  together,  wandering  about 
the  Flats;  when  they  hear  his  car  tearing  down  the 
street  late  in  the  evening;  when  they  see  her  every 
morning  at  the  gate  watching  for  him  to  pass  on  his 
way  to  work?  Your  brother  is  not  a  saint,  Helen. 
He  is  no  different,  in  some  ways,  from  other  men. 
I  always  did  feel  that  there  was  something  back  of 
all  this  comrade  stuff  between  him  and  Charlie 
Martin.  As  for  the  girl,  I  don't  think  you  need  to 
worry  about  her.  She  probably  understands  it  all 
right  enough." 

"Jim,  you  must  not  say  such  things  to  me  about 
Mary!  She  is  not  at  all  that  kind  of  girl.  The 
whole  thing  is  impossible." 

"What  do  you  know  about  Mary  Martin?"  he 
retorted.  "I'll  bet  you  have  never  even  spoken  to 
her  since  you  moved  from  the  old  house." 

Helen  did  not  speak  after  this  until  they  were  pass 
ing  the  great  stone  columns  at  the  entrance  to  the 
Ward  estate,  then  she  said,  quietly,  "Jim,  do  you 


182 


THE  AWAKENING 


always  believe  the  worst  possible  things  about 
every  one?" 

"  That's  an  odd  thing  for  you  to  ask,"  he  returned, 
doubtfully,  as  they  drove  slowly  up  the  long  curving 
driveway.  ' '  Why? ' ' 

"Because,"  she  answered,  "it  sometimes  seems  to 
me  as  if  no  one  believed  the  best  things  about  people 
these  days.  I  know  there  is  a  world  of  wickedness 
among  us,  Jim,  but  are  we  all  going  wholly  to  the 
bad  together?" 

Mclver  laughed.  "We  are  all  alike  in  one  thing, 
Helen.  No  matter  what  he  professes,  you  will  find 
that  at  the  last  every  man  holds  to  the  good  old  law 
of  *  look  out  for  number  one.'  Business  or  pleasure, 
it's  all  the  same.  A  man  looks  after  his  own  inter 
ests  first  and  takes  what  he  wants,  or  can  get,  when 
and  where  and  how  he  can." 

"But,  Jim,  the  war " 

He  laughed  cynically.  "The  war  was  pure  selfish 
ness  from  start  to  finish.  We  fed  the  fool  public  a 
lot  of  patriotic  bunk,  of  course — we  had  to — we 
needed  them.  And  the  dear  people  fell  for  the  senti 
mental  hero  business  as  they  always  do."  With  the 
last  word  he  stopped  the  car  in  front  of  the  house. 

When  Helen  was  on  the  ground  she  turned  and  faced 
him  squarely.  "Jim  Mclver,  your  words  are  an 
insult  to  my  brother  and  to  ninety-nine  out  of  every 
hundred  men  who  served  under  our  flag,  and  you 
insult  my  intelligence  if  you  expect  me  to  accept 
them  in  earnest.  If  I  thought  for  a  minute  that  you 
were  capable  of  really  believing  such  abominable  stuff 


183 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

I  would  never  speak  to  you  again.  Good-by,  Jim. 
Thank  you  so  much  for  the  ride." 

Before  the  man  could  answer,  she  ran  up  the  steps 
and  disappeared  through  the  front  door. 

But  Mclver's  car  was  no  more  than  past  the 
entrance  when  Helen  appeared  again  on  the  porch. 
For  a  moment  she  stood,  as  if  debating  some  question 
in  her  mind.  Then  apparently,  she  reached  a  deci 
sion.  Ten  minutes  later  she  was  walking  hurriedly 
down  the  hill  road — the  way  Bobby  and  Maggie  had 
fled  that  day  when  Adam  Ward  drove  them  from  the 
iron  fence  that  guarded  his  estate.  It  was  scarcely 
a  mile  by  this  road  to  the  old  house  and  the 
Martin  cottage. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  WAY  BACK 

THAT  walk  from  her  home  to  the  little  white 
cottage  next  door  to  the  old  house  was  the 
most    eventful    journey    that    Helen    Ward 
ever  made.     She  felt  this  in  a  way  at  the  time,  but 
she  could  not  know  to  what  end  her  sudden  impulse 
to  visit  again  the  place  of  her  girlhood  would  event 
ually  lead. 

As  she  made  her  way  down  the  hill  toward  that 
tree-arched  street,  she  realized  a  little  how  far  the 
years  had  carried  her  from  the  old  house.  She  had 
many  vivid  and  delightful  memories  of  that  world  of 
her  childhood,  it  is  true,  but  the  world  to  which  her 
father's  material  success  had  removed  her  in  the 
years  of  her  ripening  womanhood  had  come  to  claim 
her  so  wholly  that  she  had  never  once  gone  back.  She 
had  looked  back  at  first  with  troubled  longing.  But 
Adam  Ward's  determined  efforts  to  make  the  separa 
tion  of  the  two  families  final  and  complete,  together 
with  the  ever -increasing  bitterness  of  his  strange 
hatred  for  his  old  workman  friend,  had  effectually 
prevented  her  from  any  attempt  at  a  continuation 
of  the  old  relationship.  In  time,  even  the  thought 
of  taking  so  much  as  a  single  step  toward  the  inti 
macies  from  which  she  had  come  so  far,  had  ceased  to 
occur  to  her.  And  now,  suddenly,  without  plan  or 

185 


HELEN   OF   THE  OLD   HOUSE 

premeditation,  she  was  on  her  way  actually  to  touch 
again,  if  only  for  a  few  moments,  the  lives  that  had 
been  so  large  a  part  of  the  simple,  joyous  life  which 
she  had  known  once,  but  which  was  so  foreign  to 
her  now. 

Nor  was  it  at  all  clear  to  her  why  she  was  going 
or  what  she  would  do.  As  she  had  observed  with  in 
creasing  interest  the  change  in  her  brother's  attitude 
toward  the  pleasures  that  had  claimed  him  so  wholly 
before  the  war,  she  had  wondered  often  at  his  happy 
contentment  in  contrast  to  her  own  restless  and  dis 
satisfied  spirit.  Mclver's  words  had  suddenly  forced 
one  fact  upon  her  with  startling  clearness:  John, 
through  his  work  in  the  Mill,  his  association  with 
Captain  Charlie  and  his  visits  to  the  Martin  home, 
was  actually  living  again  in  the  atmosphere  of  that 
world  which  she  felt  they  had  left  so  far  behind.  It 
was  as  though  her  brother  had  already  gone  back. 

And  Mclver's  challenging  question,  "What  do 
you  know  about  Mary  Martin?"  had  raised  in  her 
mind  a  doubt,  not  of  her  brother  and  his  relationship 
to  these  old  friends  of  their  childhood,  but  of  her 
self  and  all  the  relationships  that  made  her  present 
life  such  a  contrast  to  her  life  in  the  old  house. 

With  her  mind  and  heart  so  full  of  doubts  and  ques 
tionings,  she  turned  into  the  familiar  street  and  saw 
her  brother's  car  still  before  the  Martin  home. 

As  she  went  on,  a  feeling  of  strange  eagerness 
possessed  her.  Her  face  glowed  with  warm  color,  her 
eyes  shone  with  glad  anticipation,  her  heart  beat  more 
quickly.  As  one  returning  to  well  loved  home  scenes 
after  many  years  in  a  foreign  land,  the  daughter  of 

186 


THE  WAY  BACK 


Adam  Ward  went  down  the  street  toward  the  place 
where  she  was  born.  In  front  of  the  old  house  she 
stopped.  The  color  went  from  her  cheeks — the 
brightness  from  her  eyes. 

In  her  swiftly  moving  automobile,  nearly  always 
with  gay  companions,  Helen  had  sometimes  passed 
the  old  house  and  had  noticed  with  momentary  con 
cern  its  neglected  appearance.  But  these  fleeting 
glimpses  had  been  so  quickly  forgotten  that  the 
place  was  most  real  to  her  as  she  saw  it  in  her  mem 
ories.  But  now,  as  she  stood  there  alone,  hi  the 
mood  that  had  brought  her  to  the  spot,  the  real  sig 
nificance  of  the  ruin  struck  her  with  appalling  force. 

Those  rooms  with  their  shattered  windowpanes, 
their  bare,  rotting  casements  and  sagging,  broken 
shutters  appealed  to  her  in  the  mute  eloquence  of 
their  empty  loneliness  for  the  joyous  life  that  once 
had  filled  them.  The  weed-grown  yard,  the  tumble 
down  fence,  the  dilapidated  porch,  and  even  the 
chimneys  that  were  crumbling  and  ragged  against 
the  sky,  cried  out  to  her  in  sorrowful  reproach.  A 
rushing  flood  of  home  memories  filled  her  eyes  with 
hot  tears.  With  the  empty  loneliness  of  the  old 
house  in  her  heart,  she  went  blindly  on  to  the  little 
cottage  next  door.  There  was  no  thought  as  to  how 
she  would  explain  her  unusual  presence  there.  She 
did  not,  herself,  really  know  clearly  why  she  had 
come. 

Timidly  she  pa'used  at  the  white  gate.  Tliere  was 
no  one  in  the  yard  to  bid  her  welcome.  As  one  in  a 
dream,  she  passed  softly  into  the  yard.  She  was 
trembling  now  as  one  on  the  threshold  of  a  great 

187 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

adventure.     What  was  it?     What  did  it  mean — her 
coming  there? 

Wonderingly  she  looked  about  the  little  yard  with 
its  bit  of  lawn — at  the  big  shade  tree — the  flowers — 
it  was  all  just  as  she  had  always  known  it.  Where 
were  they? — John  and  Mary  and  Charlie?  Why  was 
there  no  sound  of  their  voices?  Her  cheeks  were 
suddenly  hot  with  color.  What  if  Charlie  Martin 
should  suddenly  appear!  As  one  awakened  from 
strange  dreams  to  a  familiar  home  scene,  Helen 
Ward  was  all  at  once  back  in  those  days  of  her  girl 
hood.  She  had  come  as  she  had  come  so  many, 
many  times  from  the  old  house  next  door,  to  find  her 
brother  and  their  friends.  Her  heart  was  eager  with 
the  shy  eagerness  of  a  maid  for  the  expected  presence 
of  her  first  boyish  lover. 
t- 

Then  Peter  Martin,  coming  around  the  house  from 
the  garden,  saw  her  standing  there. 

The  old  workman  stopped,  as  if  at  the  sight  of 
an  apparition.  Mechanically  he  placed  the  garden 
tool  he  was  carrying  against  the  corner  of  the  house; 
deliberately  he  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and 
placed  it  methodically  in  his  pocket. 

With  a  little  cry,  Helen  ran  to  him,  her  hands 
outstretched,  " Uncle  Pete!" 

The  old  workman  caught  her  and  for  a  few  mo 
ments  she  clung  to  him,  half  laughing,  half  crying, 
while  they  both,  in  the  genuineness  of  their  affec 
tion,  forgot  the  years. 

"Is  it  really  you,  Helen?"  he  said,  at  last,  and  she 
saw  a  suspicious  moisture  in  the  kindly  eyes. 

188 


THE  WAY  BACK 


"Have  you  really  come  back  to  see  the  old  man  after 
all  these  years?" 

Then,  with  quick  anxiety,  he  asked,  "But  what  is 
the  matter,  child?  Your  father — your  mother — are 
they  all  right?  Is  there  anything  wrong  at  your 
home  up  on  the  hill  yonder?" 

His  very  natural  inquiry  broke  the  spell  and 
placed  her  instantly  back  in  the  world  to  which 
she  now  belonged.  Drawing  away  from  him,  she 
returned,  with  characteristic  calmness,  "Oh,  no, 
Uncle  Pete,  father  and  mother  are  both  very  well 
indeed.  But  why  should  you  think  there  must  be 
something  wrong,  simply  because  I  chanced  to 
call?"  h 

The  old  workman  was  clearly  confused  at  this 
sudden  change  in  her  manner.  He  had  welcomed 
the  girl — the  Helen  of  the  old  house — this  self- 
possessed  young  woman  was  quite  a  different  person. 
She  was  the  princess  lady  of  little  Maggie  and 
Bobby  Whaley's  acquaintance,  who  sometimes  con 
descended  to  recognize  him  with  a  cool  little  nod 
as  her  big  automobile  passed  him  swiftly  by. 

Pete  Martin  could  not  know,  as  the  Interpreter 
would  have  known,  how  at  that  very  moment  the 
Helen  of  the  old  house  and  the  princess  lady  were 
struggling  for  supremacy. 

Removing  his  hat  and  handling  it  awkwardly, 
he  said,  with  a  touch  of  dignity  in  his  tone  and 
manner  in  spite  of  his  embarrassment,  "I'm  glad  the 
folks  are  well,  Helen.  Won't  you  take  a  seat  and 
rest  yourself?" 

As  they  went  toward  the  chairs  in  the  shade  of  the 
189 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

tree,  he  added,  "It  is  a  long  time  since  we  have  seen 
you  in  this  part  of  town — walking,  I  mean/' 

The  Helen  of  the  old  house  wanted  to  answer — she 
longed  to  cry  out  in  the  fullness  of  her  heart  some  of 
the  things  that  were  demanding  expression,  but  it  was 
the  princess  lady  who  answered,  "I  saw  my  brother's 
car  here  and  thought  perhaps  he  would  let  me  ride 
home  with  him." 

The  old  workman  was  studying  her  now  with  kind 
but  frankly  understanding  eyes.  "John  and  Mary- 
have  gone  to  see  some  of  the  folks  that  she  is  looking 
after  in  the  Flats,"  he  said,  slowly.  "They'll  be 
back  any  minute  now,  I  should  think." 

She  did  not  know  what  to  reply  to  this.  There 
were  so  many  things  she  wanted  to  know — so  many 
things  that  she  felt  she  must  know.  But  she  felt 
herself  forced  to  answer  with  the  mere  com 
monplace,  "You  are  all  well,  I  suppose,  Uncle 
Pete?" 

"Fine,  thank  you,"  he  answered.  "Mary  is 
always  busy  with  her  housework  and  her  flowers  and 
the  poor  sick  folks  she's  always  a-looking  after — 
just  like  her  mother,  if  you  remember.  Charlie, 
he's  working  late  to-day — some  breakdown  or 
something  that's  keeping  him  overtime.  That 
brother  of  yours  is  a  fine  manager,  Miss  Helen,  and," 
he  added,  with  a  faint  note  of  something  hi  his  voice 
that  brought  a  touch  of  color  to  her  cheeks,  "a  finer 
man." 

Again  she  felt  the  crowding  rush  of  those  questions 
she  wanted  to  ask,  but  she  only  said,  with  an  air  of 
calm  indifference,  "John  has  changed  so  since  his 

190 


THE  WAY  BACK 


return  from  France — in  many  ways  he  seems  like  a 
different  man." 

"As  for  that,"  he  replied,  "the  war  has  changed 
most  people  in  one  way  or  another.  It  was  bound 
to.  Everybody  talks  about  getting  back  to  normal 
again,  but  as  I  see  it  there'll  be  no  getting  back  ever 
to  what  used  to  be  normal  before  the  war  started." 

She  looked  at  him  with  sudden,  intense  interest. 
"How  has  it  so  changed  every  one,  Uncle  Pete? 
Why  can't  people  be  just  as  they  were  before  it 
happened?  The  change  in  business  conditions  and 
all  that,  I  can  understand,  but  why  should  it  make 
any  difference  to — well,  to  me,  for  example?" 

The  old  workman  answered,  slowly,  "The  people 
are  thinking  deeper  and  feeling  deeper.  They're 
more  human,  as  you  might  say.  And  I've  noticed 
generally  that  the  way  the  people  think  and  feel  is 
at  the  bottom  of  everything.  It's  just  like  the 
Interpreter  says,  'You  can't  change  the  minds  and 
hearts  of  folks  without  changing  what  they  do.' 
Everybody  ain't  changed,  of  course,  but  so  many  of 
them  have  that  the  rest  will  be  bound  to  take  some 
notice  or  feel  mighty  lonesome  from  now  on." 

Helen  was  about  to  reply  when  the  old  workman 
interrupted  her  with,  "There  come  John  and  Mary 
now." 

The  two  coming  along  the  street  walk  to  the  gate 
did  not  at  first  notice  those  who  were  watching  them 
with  such  interest.  John  was  carrying  a  market 
basket  and  talking  earnestly  to  his  companion,  whose 
face  was  upturned  to  his  with  eager  interest.  At  the 
gate  they  paused  a  moment  while  the  man,  with  his 

191 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

hand  on  the  latch,  finished  whatever  it  was  that  he 
was  saying.  And  Helen,  with  a  little  throb  of  some 
thing  very  much  like  envy  in  her  heart,  saw  the  light 
of  happiness  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  woman  who 
through  all  the  years  of  their,  girlhood  had  been  her 
inseparable  playmate  and  loyal  friend. 

When  John  finally  opened  the  gate  for  her  to  pass, 
Mary  was  laughing,  and  the  clear  ringing  gladness  in 
her  voice  brought  a  faint  smile  of  sympathy  even  to 
the  face  of  the  now  coolly  conventional  daughter 
of  Adam  Ward. 

Mary's  laughter  was  suddenly  checked;  the  hap 
piness  fled  from  her  face.  With  a  little  gesture  of 
almost  appealing  fear  she  put  her  hand  on  her  com 
panion's  arm. 

In  the  same  instant  John  saw  and  stood  motion 
less,  his  face  blank  with  amazement.  Then,  "Helen! 
What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  here?  " 

John  Ward  never  realized  all  that  those  simple 
words  carried  to  the  three  who  heard  him.  Peter 
Martin's  face  was  grave  and  thoughtful.  Mary 
blushed  in  painful  embarrassment.  His  sister,  calm 
and  self-possessed,  came  toward  them,  smiling 
graciously. 

"I  saw  your  roadster  and  thought  I  might  ride 
home  with  you.  Uncle  Pete  and  I  have  been  having 
a  lovely  little  visit.  It  is  perfectly  charming  to  see 
you  again  like  this,  Mary.  Your  flowers  are  beauti 
ful  as  ever,  aren't  they?" 

"But,  Helen,  how  do  you  happen  to  be  wandering 
about  in  this  neighborhood  alone  and  without  your 
car?"  demanded  the  still  bewildered  John. 

192 


THE  WAY  BACK 


"Don't  be  silly,"  she  laughed.  "I  was  out  for  a 
walk — that  is  all.  I  do  walk  sometimes,  you  know." 
She  turned  to  Mary.  "Really,  to  hear  this  brother 
of  mine,  one  would  think  me  a  helpless  invalid  and 
this  part  of  Millsburgh  a  very  dangerous  com 
munity." 

Mary  forced  a  smile,  but  the  light  in  her  eyes  was 
not  the  light  of  happiness  and  her  cheeks  were  still 
a  burning  red. 

"Don't  you  think  we  should  go  now,  John?"  sug 
gested  Helen. 

The  helpless  John  looked  from  Mary  to  her  father 
appealingly. 

"Better  sit  down  awhile,"  Pete  offered,  awk 
wardly. 

John  looked  at  his  watch.  "I  suppose  we  really 
ought  to  go."  To  Mary  he  added,  "Will  you  please 
tell  Charlie  that  I  will  see  him  to-morrow?  " 

She  bowed  gravely. 

Then  the  formal  parting  words  were  spoken,  and 
Helen  and  John  were  seated  hi  the  car.  Mary  had 
moved  aside  from  the  gate  and  stood  now  very  still 
among  her  flowers. 

Before  John  had  shifted  the  gears  of  his  machine 
to  high,  he  heard  a  sound  that  caused  him  to  look 
quickly  at  his  sister.  Little  Maggie's  princess  lady 
was  sobbing  like  a  child. 

"Why,  Helen,  what  in  the  world—  " 

She  interrupted  him.  "  Please,  John — please,  don't 

— don't  take  me  home  now.  I — I Let  us  stop 

193 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

here  at  the  old  house  for  a  few  minutes.     I — I  can't 
go  just  yet." 

Without  a  word  John  Ward  turned  into  the  curb. 
Tenderly  he  helped  her  to  the  ground.  Reverently 
he  lifted  aside  the  broken-down  gate  and  led  her 
through  the  tangle  of  tall  grass  and  weeds  that  had 
almost  obliterated  the  walk  to  the  front  porch. 
Over  the  rotting  steps  and  across  the  trembling  porch 
he  helped  her  with  gentle  care.  Very  softly  he 
pushed  open  the  sagging  door. 


CHAPTER  XV 

AT  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

FROM  room  to  room  in  the  empty  old  house  the 
brother  and  sister  went  silently  or  with  low, 
half-whispered  words.  They  moved  softly, 
as  if  fearing  to  disturb  some  unseen  tenant  of  those 
bare  and  dingy  rooms.  Often  they  paused,  and, 
drawing  close  to  each  other,  stood  as  if  in  the 
very  presence  of  some  spirit  that  was  not  of  their 
material  world.  At  last  they  came  to  the  back 
porch,  which  was  hidden  from  the  curious  eyes  of 
any  chance  observer  in  the  neighborhood  by  a  rank 
growth  of  weeds  and  bushes  and  untrimmed  trees. 

As  John  Ward  looked  at  his  sister  now,  that 
expression  of  wondering  amazement  with  which  he 
had  greeted  her  was  gone.  In  its  place  there  was 
gentle  understanding. 

With  a  little  smile,  Helen  sat  down  on  the  top  step 
of  the  porch  and  motioned  him  to  a  seat  beside  her. 
"Won't  you  tell  me  about  it,  John?"  she  said,  softly. 

"Tell  you  about  what,  Helen?" 

"About  everything — your  life,  your  work,  your 
friends."  She  made  a  little  gesture  toward  the 
cottage  next  door. 

They  could  see  the  white  gable  through  the  screen 
of  tangled  boughs. 

"What  is  it  that  has  changed  you  so?"  she  went 
195 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

on.  "Your  interests  are  so  different  now.  You 
are  so  happy  and  contented — so — so  alive — and  I" — 
her^voice  broke — "I  feel  as  if  you  were  going  away 
off  somewhere  and  leaving  me  behind.  I  am  so 
miserable.  John,  won't  you  tell  me  about  things?  " 

"You  poor  old  girl!"  exclaimed  John  with  true 
brotherly  affection.  "I've  been  a  blind  fool.  I 
ought  to  have  seen.  That's  nearly  always  the  way, 
though,  I  guess,"  he  went  on,  reflectively.  "A  fellow 
gets  so  darned  interested  trying  to  make  things  go 
right  outside  his  own  home  that  he  forgets  to  notice 
how  the  people  that  he  really  loves  most  of  all  are 
getting  along.  It  looks  as  though  I  have  not  been 
doing  so  much  better  than  poor  old  Sam  Whaley, 
after  all."  • 

He  paused  and  seemed  to  be  following  his  thoughts 
into  fields  where  only  he  could  go.  Helen  moved 
a  little  closer,  and  he  came  back  to  her. 

"I  never  dreamed  that  you  were  feeling  anything 
like  this,  sister.  I  knew  that  you  were  worried 
about  father,  of  course,  as  we  all  are,  but  aside  from 
that  you  seemed  to  be  so  occupied  with  your  various 
interests  and  with  Mclver —  He  paused,  then 
finished,  abruptly,  "Look  here,  Helen,  what  about 
you  and  Mclver  anyway;  have  you  given  him  his 
answer  yet?" 

"Has  that  anything  to  do  with  it?"  she  answered, 
doubtfully.  "There  is  nothing  that  I  can  tell  you 
about  Mclver.  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  make  up 
my  mind,  that  is  all.  But  Mclver  is  only  a  part  of 
the  whole  trouble,  John.  Oh,  can't  you  under 
stand!  Hov/  am  I  to  know  whether  or  not  I  want 

196 


AT  THE  OLD  HOUSE 


to  marry  him  or  any  one  else  until — until  I  have 
found  myself — until  I  know  where  I  really  belong." 

He  looked  at  her  blankly  for  a  second,  then  a  smile 
broke  over  his  face.  "By  George!"  he  exclaimed, 
"that  is  exactly  what  I  had  to  do — find  myself  and 
find  where  I  belonged.  I  never  dreamed  that  my 
sister  might  be  compelled  to  go  through  the  same 
experience." 

"  Was  it  your  army  life  that  helped  you  to  know?" 

His  face  was  serious  now.  "It  was  the  things  I 
saw  and  experienced  while  in  France." 

"Tell  me,"  she  demanded.  "I  mean,  tell  me  some 
of  the  things  that  you  men  never  talk  about — the 
things  you  were  forced  to  think  and  feel  and  believe — 
that  showed  you  your  own  real  self — that  changed 
you  into  what  you  are  to-day." 

And  because  John  Ward  was  able  that  afternoon  to 
understand  his  sister's  need,  he  did  as  she  asked. 
It  may  have  been  the  influence  of  the  old  house  that 
enabled  him  to  lay  bare  for  her  those  experiences  of 
his  innermost  self — those  soul  adventures  about 
which,  as  she  had  so  truly  said,  men  never  talk. 
Certainly  he  could  never  have  spoken  in  their  home 
on  the  hill  as  he  spoke  hi  that  atmosphere  from 
which  their  father  and  his  material  prosperity  had 
so  far  removed  them.  And  Helen,  as  she  listened, 
knew  that  she  had  found  at  last  the  key  to  all  in  her 
brother's  life  that  had  so  puzzled  her. 

But  after  all,  she  reflected,  when  he  had  fin 
ished,  John's  experience  could  not  solve  her  problem. 
She  could  not  find  herself  in  the  things  that  he  had 
thought  and  felt. 

197 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

"If  only  I  could  have  been  with  you  over  there," 
she  murmured. 

"But,  Helen,"  he  cried,  eagerly,  "it  is  all  right  here 
at  home.  The  same  things  are  happening  all  about 
us  every  day — don't  you  understand?  The  one 
biggest  thing  that  came  to  me  out  of  the  war  is  the 
realization  that,  great  and  terrible  though  it  was,  it 
was  in  reality  only  a  part  of  the  greater  war  that  is 
being  fought  all  the  tune." 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  doubtful  smile  at  his 
earnestness. 

And  then  he  tried  to  tell  her  of  the  Mill  as  he  saw 
it  in  its  relation  to  human  life — of  the  danger  that 
threatened  the  nation  through  the  industrial  situa 
tion — of  the  menace  to  humanity  that  lay  in  the 
efforts  of  those  who  were  setting  class  against  class 
in  a  deadly  hatred  that  would  result  in  revolution 
with  all  its  horrors.  He  tried  to  make  her  feel  the 
call  of  humanity's  need  in  the  world's  work,  as  it 
was  felt  hi  the  need  of  the  world's  war.  He  sought 
to  apply  for  her  the  principles  of  heroism  and  com 
radeship  and  patriotism  and  service  to  this  war 
that  was  still  being  waged  against  the  imperialistic 
enemies  of  the  nation  and  the  race. 

But  when  he  paused  at  last,  she  only  smiled  again, 
doubtfully.  "You  are  wonderful  in  your  enthu 
siasm,  John  dear,"  she  said,  "and  I  love  you  for  it. 
I  think  I  understand  you  now,  and  for  yourself  it  is 
right,  of  course,  but  for  me — it  is  all  so  visionary — 
so  unreal." 

"And  yet,  he  returned,  "you  were  very  active 
during  the  war — you  made  bandages  and  lint  and 

198 


AT  THE  OLD   HOUSE 


sweaters,  and  raised  funds  for  the  Red  Cross. 
Was  it  all  real  to  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  honestly,  "it  was  very  real, 
John;  it  was  so  real  that  in  contrast  nothing  that  I 
do  now  seems  of  any  importance." 

"But  you  never  saw  a  wounded  soldier — you  never 
witnessed  the  horrors — you  never  came  hi  actual 
touch  with  the  suffering,  did  you?" 

"No." 

"And  yet  you  say  the  war  was  real  to  you." 

"Very  real,"  she  replied. 

"Do  you  think,  Helen,"  he  said,  slowly,  "that  the 
Interpreter's  suffering  would  have  been  more  real  if 
he  had  lost  his  legs  by  a  German  machine  gun 
instead  of  by  a  machine  in  father's  mill?  " 

"John!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  shocked  tone. 

"You  say  the  suffering  away  over  there  in  France 
was  real  to  you,"  he  continued.  "Well,  less  than  a 
mile  from  this  spot,  I  called  this  afternoon  on  a 
man  who  is  dying  by  inches  of  consumption,  con 
tracted  while  working  in  our  office.  For  eight  years 
he  was  absent  from  his  desk  scarcely  a  day.  The 
force  nicknamed  him  'Old  Faithful.'  When  he 
dropped  hi  his  tracks  at  last  they  carried  him  out  and 
stopped  his  pay.  He  has  no  care — nothing  to  eat, 
even,  except  the  help  that  the  Martins  give  him. 
Another  case:  A  widow  and  four  helpless  children — 
the  man  was  killed  in  Mclver's  factory  last  week. 
He  died  in  agony  too  horrible  to  describe.  The 
mother  is  prostrated,  the  children  are  hungry.  God 
knows  what  will  become  of  them  this  next  whiter. 
Another:  A  workman  who  was  terribly  burned  in 

199 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

the  Mill  two  years  ago.  He  is  blind  and  crippled 
in  the  bargain " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  protesting  cry,  "John, 
John,  for  pity's  sake,  stop!" 

"Well,  why  are  not  these  things  right  here  at  home 
as  real  to  you  as  you  say  the  same  things  were  when 
they  happened  in  France?"  he  demanded. 

She  did  not  attempt  to  answer  his  question  but 
instead  asked,  gently,  "Is  that  why  you  have  been 
going  to  the  Flats  with  Mary?" 

If  he  noticed  any  special  significance  in  her  words 
he  ignored  it.  "Mary  visits  the  people  in  the  Flats 
as  her  mother  did — as  our  mother  used  to  do.  She 
told  me  about  some  of  the  cases,  and  I  have  been 
going  with  her  now  and  then  to  see  for  myself — 
that  is  all." 

Then  they  left  the  old  house  and  drove  back  to 
their  pretentious  home  on  the  hill,  where  Adam 
Ward  suffered  his  days  of  mental  torture  and  was 
racked  by  his  nightly  dreams  of  hell.  And  the  dread 
shadow  of  that  hidden  thing  was  over  them  all. 

That  night  when  John  told  the  Interpreter  of  his 
afternoon  with  his  sister  the  old  basket  maker 
listened  silently.  His  face  was  turned  toward  the 
scene  that,  save  for  the  twinkling  lights,  lay  wrapped 
in  darkness  before  them.  And  he  seemed  to  be 
listening  to  the  voice  of  the  Mill.  When  John  had 
finished,  the  man  hi  the  wheel  chair  said  very  little. 

But  when  John  was  leaving,  the  Interpreter  asked, 
as  an  afterthought,  "And  where  was  Captain  Charlie 
this  afternoon,  John?" 

200 


AT  THE  OLD  HOUSE 


"At  the  Mill,"  John  answered.  "I'm  glad  he 
wasn't  at  home,  too ;  it  was  bad  enough  as  it  was." 

"Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well,"  said  the  old  basket 
maker.  And  John  Ward,  in  the  darkness,  could 
not  see  that  the  Interpreter  was  smiling. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HER  OWN   PEOPLE 

"  A    LADY  to  see  you,  sir." 

A%        John    did    not    take    his    eyes    from   the 
work  on  his  desk.     "All  right,  Jimmy,  show 
her  in." 

The  general  manager  read  on  to  the  bottom  of  the 
typewritten  page,  signed  his  name  to  the  sheet, 
placed  it  in  the  proper  basket  and  turned  in  his 
chair. 

"Helen!" 

Little  Maggie's  princess  lady  was  so  lovely  that 
afternoon,  as  she  stood  there  framed  in  the  doorway 
of  the  manager's  office  that  even  her  brother  noticed. 

She  was  laughing  at  his  surprise,  and  there  was  a 
half  teasing,  hah7  serious  look  in  her  eyes  that  was 
irresistible. 

"By  George,  you  are  a  picture,  Helen!"  John 
exclaimed,  with  not  a  little  brotherly  pride  in  his 
face  and  voice.  "But  what  is  the  idea?  What  are 
you  down  here  for — all  dolled  up  like  this?" 

She  blushed  with  pleasure  at  his  compliment. 
"That  is  very  nice  of  you,  John;  you  are  a  dear  to 
notice  it.  Are  you  going  to  ask  me  to  sit  down,  or 
must  you  put  me  out  for  interrupting?" 

He  was  on  his  feet  instantly.  "Forgive  me;  I 
am  so  stunned  by  the  unexpected  honor  of  your  visit 
that  I  forget  my  manners." 

202 


HER  OWN  PEOPLE 


When  she  was  seated,  he  continued,  "And  now 
what  is  it?  what  can  I  do  for  you,  sister?  " 

She  looked  about  the  office — at  his  desk  and 
through  the  open  door  into  the  busy  outer  room. 
"Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  have  tune  for  me?" 

"Surest  thing  in  the  world,"  he  returned,  with  a 
reassuring  smile.  Then  to  a  man  who  at  that 
moment  appeared  in  the  doorway,  "All  right, 
Tom."  And  to  Helen,  "Excuse  me  just  a  second, 
dear." 

She  watched  him  curiously  as  he  turned  sheet 
after  sheet  of  the  papers  the  man  handed  him, 
seeming  to  absorb  the  pages  at  a  glance,  while  a 
running  fire  of  quick  questions,  short  answers,  terse 
comments  and  clear-cut  instructions  accompanied 
the  examination. 

Helen  had  never  before  been  inside  the  doors  of 
the  industrial  plant  to  which  her  father  had  literally 
given  his  life.  In  those  old-house  days,  when  Adam 
worked  with  Pete  and  the  Interpreter,  she  had  gone 
sometimes  to  the  outer  gate  to  meet  her  father  when 
his  day's  work  was  done.  On  rare  occasions  her 
automobile  had  stopped  in  front  of  the  office.  That 
was  all. 

In  a  vague,  indefinite  way  the  young  woman 
realized  that  her  education,  her  pleasures,  the 
dresses  she  wore,  her  home  on  the  hill,  everything 
that  she  had,  in  fact,  came  to  her  somehow  from  those 
great  dingy,  unsightly  buildings.  She  knew  that 
people  who  were  not  of  her  world  worked  there  for 
her  father.  Sometimes  there  were  accidents — men 

203 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

were  killed.  There  had  been  strikes  that  annoyed 
her  father.  But  no  part  of  it  all  had  ever  actually 
touched  her.  She  accepted  it  as  a  matter  of  course — 
without  a  thought — as  she  accepted  all  of  the 
established  facts  hi  nature.  The  Mill  existed  for  her 
as  the  sun  existed.  It  never  occurred  to  her  to  ask 
why.  There  was  for  her  no  personal  note  in  the 
droning,  moaning  voice  of  its  industry.  There  was 
nothing  of  personal  significance  in  the  forest  of  tall 
stacks  with  their  overhanging  cloud  of  smoke. 
Indeed,  there  had  been,  rather,  something  sinister 
and  forbidding  about  the  place.  The  threatening 
aspect  of  the  present  industrial  situation  was  in  no 
way  personal  to  her  except,  perhaps,  as  it  excited 
her  father  and  disturbed  John. 

"You've  got  it  all  there,  Tom,"  said  the  manager, 
finishing  his  examination  of  the  papers.  "Good 
work,  too.  Baird  will  have  those  specifications  on 
that  Miller  and  Wilson  job  in  to-morrow,  will 
he?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Good,  that's  the  stuff!" 

The  man  was  smiling  as  he  moved  toward  the 
door. 

"Oh,  Tom,  just  a  moment." 

Still  smiling,  the  man  turned  back. 

"I  want  you  to  meet  my  sister.  Helen,  may  I 
present  Mr.  Conway?  Tom  is  one  of  our  Mill 
family,  you  know,  mighty  important  member,  too — 
regular  shark  at  figuring  all  sorts  of  complicated 
calculations  that  I  couldn't  work  out  in  a  month 

204 


HER  OWN  PEOPLE 


of  Sundays."  He  laughed  with  boyish  happiness 
and  pride  in  Tom's  superior  accomplishments. 

It  was  a  simple  little  incident,  but  there  was 
something  in  it  somewhere  that  moved  Helen  Ward 
strangely.  A  spirit  that  was  new  to  her  seemed  to 
fill  the  room.  She  felt  it  as  one  may  feel  the  bigness 
of  the  mountains  or  sense  the  vast  reaches  of  the 
ocean.  These  two  men,  employer  and  employee, 
were  in  no  way  conscious  of  their  relationship  as 
she  understood  it.  Tom  did  not  appear  to  realize 
that  he  was  working  for  John — he  seemed  rather  to 
feel  that  he  was  working  with  John. 

When  the  man  was  gone,  she  asked  again,  timidly, 
"Are  you  sure,  brother,  that  I  am  not  in  the  way?" 

" Forget  it!"  he  cried.  "Tell  me  what  I  can  do 
for  you." 

"I  want  to  see  the  Mill,"  she  answered. 

John  did  not  apparently  quite  understand  her 
request.  "You  want  to  see  the  Mill?"  he  repeated. 

She  nodded  eagerly.  "I  want  to  see  it  all — not 
just  the  office  but  where  the  men  work — everything." 

She  laughed  at  his  bewildered  expression  as  the 
sincerity  of  her  wish  dawned  upon  him. 

"But  what  hi  the  world" — he  began — "why  this 
sudden  interest  in  the  Mill,  Helen?" 

Half  teasing,  half  laughing,  she  answered,  "You 
didn't  really  think,  did  you,  John,  that  I  would  for 
get  everything  you  said  to  me  at  the  old  house?" 

"No,"  he  said,  doubtfully.  "At  least,  I  suppose  I 
didn't.  But,  honestly,  I  didn't  think  that  I  had 
made  much  of  an  impression." 

She  made  a  little  gesture  of  helpless  resignation. 
205 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"Here  I  am  just  the  same  and  so  much  interested 
already  that  I  can't  tear  myself  away.  Come  on, 
let's  start — that  is,  if  you  really  have  the  time  to 
take  me." 

Tune  to  take  her!  John  Ward  would  have  lost 
the  largest  contract  he  had  ever  dreamed  of  secur 
ing  rather  than  miss  taking  Helen  through  the  Mill. 

With  an  old  linen  duster,  which  had  hung  in  the 
office  closet  since  Adam  Ward's  day,  to  cover  her 
from  chin  to  shoes,  and  a  cap  that  John  himself 
often  wore  about  the  plant,  to  replace  her  hat,  they 
set  out. 

Helen's  first  impression,  as  she  stood  just  inside 
the  door  to  the  big  main  room  of  the  plant,  was 
fear.  To  her  gentle  eyes  the  scene  was  one  of 
terrifying  confusion  and  unspeakable  dangers. 

Those  great  machines  were  grim  and  threatening 
monsters  with  ponderous  jaws  and  arms  and  chains 
that  seemed  all  too  light  to  control  their  sullen 
strength.  The  noise — roaring,  crashing,  clanking, 
moaning,  shrieking,  hissing — was  overpowering  in 
its  suggestion  of  the  ungoverned  tumult  that 
belonged  to  some  strange,  unearthly  realm.  Every 
where,  amid  this  fearful  din  and  these  maddening 
terrors,  flitting  through  the  murky  haze  of  steam 
and  smoke  and  dust,  were  men  with  sooty  faces  and 
grimy  arms.  Never  had  the  daughter  of  Adam 
Ward  seen  men  at  work  like  this.  She  drew  closer 
to  John's  side  and  held  to  his  arm  as  though  half 
expecting  him  to  vanish  suddenly  and  leave  her 
alone  in  this  monstrous  nightmare. 

206 


HER  OWN  PEOPLE 


Looking  down  at  her,  John  laughed  aloud  and  put 
his  arm  about  her  reassuringly.  "Great  game, 
old  girl!"  he  said,  with  a  wholesome  pride  in  his 
voice.  " This  is  the  life!" 

And  all  at  once  she  remembered  that  this  was, 
indeed,  life — life  as  she  had  never  seen  it,  never  felt 
it  before.  And  this  life  game — this  greatest  of  all 
games — was  the  game  that  John  played  with  such 
absorbing  interest  day  after  day. 

"  I  can  understand  now  why  you  are  not  so  devoted 
to  tennis  and  teas  as  you  used  to  be,"  she  returned, 
laughing  back  at  him  with  a  new  admiration  in  her 
face. 

Then  John  led  her  into  the  very  midst  of  the  noisy 
scene.  Carefully  he  guided  her  steps  through  the 
seeming  hurry  and  confusion  of  machinery  and  men. 
Now  they  paused  before  one  of  those  grim  monsters 
to  watch  its  mighty  work.  Now  they  stopped  to 
witness  the  terrific  power  displayed  by  another 
giant  that  lifted,  with  its  great  arms  of  steel,  a 
weight  of  many  tons  as  easily  as  a  child  would  handle 
a  toy.  Again,  they  stepped  aside  from  the  path  of 
an  engine  on  its  way  to  some  distant  part  of  the 
plant,  or  stood  before  a  roaring  furnace,  or  paused 
to  watch  a  group  of  men,  or  halted  while  John 
exchanged  a  few  brief  words  with  a  superintendent 
or  foreman.  And  always  with  boyish  enthusiasm 
John  talked  to  her  of  what  they  saw,  explaining, 
illustrating,  making  the  purpose  and  meaning  of 
every  detail  clear. 

Gradually,  as  she  thus  went  closer  to  this  life 
that  was  at  first  so  terrifying  to  her,  the  young 

207 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 


woman  was  conscious  of  a  change  within  herself. 
The  grim  monsters  became  kind  and  friendly  as  she 
saw  how  their  mighty  strength  was  obedient  always 
to  the  directing  eye  and  hand  of  the  workmen  who 
controlled  them.  The  many  noises,  as  she  learned 
to  distinguish  them,  came  to  blend  into  one  harmoni 
ous  whole,  like  the  instruments  in  a  great  orchestra. 
The  confusion,  as  she  came  to  view  it  understand- 
ingly,  resolved  itself  into  orderly  movement.  As 
she  recalled  some  of  the  things  that  her  brother 
had  said  to  her  as  they  sat  on  the  back  porch  of 
the  old  house,  her  mind  reached  out  for  the  larger 
truth,  and  she  thrilled  to  the  feeling  that  she  was 
standing,  as  it  were,  in  the  living,  beating  heart  of 
the  nation.  The  things  that  she  had  been  schooled 
to  hold  as  of  the  highest  value  she  saw  now  for  the 
first  time  in  their  just  relation  to  the  mighty  under 
lying  life  of  the  Mill.  The  petty  refinements  that 
had  so  largely  ruled  her  every  thought  and  deed 
were  no  more  than  frothy  bubbles  on  the  surface  of 
the  industrial  ocean's  awful  tidal  power.  The  male 
idlers  of  her  set  were  suddenly  contemptible  in 
her  eyes,  as  she  saw  them  in  comparison  with  her 
brother  or  with  his  grimy,  sweating  comrades. 

Presently  John  was  saying,  "This  is  where  father 
used  to  work — before  the  days  of  the  new  process, 
I  mean.  That  bench  there  is  the  very  one  he  used, 
side  by  side  with  Uncle  Pete  and  the  Interpreter." 

Helen  stared  at  the  old  workbench  that  stood 
against  the  wall  and  at  the  backs  of  the  men,  as 
though  under  a  spell.  Her  father  working  there! 

Her  brain  all  at  once  was  crowded  with  questions 
208 


HER  OWN   PEOPLE 


to  which  there  were  no  answers.  What  if  Adam 
Ward  were  still  a  workman  at  that  bench?  What  if 
it  had  been  the  Interpreter  who  had  discovered  the 
new  process?  What  if  her  father  had  lost  his 
legs?  What  if  John,  instead  of  being  the  manager, 
were  one  of  those  men  who  worked  with  their  hands? 
What  if  they  had  never  left  the  old  house  next  door 
to  Mary  and  Charlie?  What  if 

" Uncle  Pete,"  said  John,  "look  here  and  see  who's 
with  us  this  afternoon." 

Mary's  father  turned  from  his  work  and  they 
laughed  at  the  expression  on  his  face  when  he  saw 
her  standing  there. 

And  it  was  the  Helen  of  the  old  house  who  greeted 
him,  and  who  was  so  interested  in  what  he  was  doing 
and  asked  so  many  really  intelligent  questions 
that  he  was  proud  of  her. 

They  had  left  Uncle  Pete  at  his  bench,  and  Helen's 
mind  was  again  busy  with  those  unanswerable 
questions — so  busy,  in  fact,  that  she  scarcely  heard 
John  saying,  "I  want  to  show  you  a  lathe  over  here, 
Helen,  that  is  really  worth  seeing.  It  is,  on  the 
whole,  the  finest  and  most  intricate  piece  of  ma 
chinery  hi  the  whole  plant."  And,  he  added,  as  they 
drew  near  the  subject  of  his  remarks,  "You  may 
believe  me,  it  takes  an  exceptional  workman  to 
handle  it.  There  are  only  three  men  in  our  entire 
force  who  are  ever  permitted  to  touch  it.  They 
are  experts  in  their  line  and  naturally  are  the  best 
paid  men  we  have." 

As  he  finished  speaking  they  paused  beside  a 
huge  affair  of  black  iron  and  gray  steel,  that  to 

209 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

Helen  seemed  an  incomprehensible  tangle  of  wheels 
and  levers. 

A  workman  was  bending  over  the  machine,  so 
absorbed  apparently  hi  the  complications  of  his 
valuable  charge  that  he  was  unaware  of  their  pres 
ence. 

Helen  spoke  close  to  her  brother's  ear,  "Is  he  one 
of  your  three  experts?" 

John  nodded.  "He  is  the  chief.  The  other  two 
are  really  assistants — sort  of  understudies,  you 
know." 

At  that  moment  the  man  straightened  up,  stood 
for  an  instant  with  his  eyes  still  on  his  work,  then, 
as  he  was  turning  to  another  part  of  the  intricate 
mechanism,  he  saw  them. 

"Hello,  Charlie!"  said  the  grinning  manager,  and 
to  his  sister,  "Surely  you  haven't  forgotten  Captain 
Martin,  Helen?" 

In  the  brief  moments  that  followed  Helen  Ward 
knew  that  she  had  reached  the  point  toward  which 
she  had  felt  herself  moving  for  several  months — 
impelled  by  strange  forces  beyond  her  comprehen 
sion. 

Her  brother's  renewed  and  firmly  established 
friendship  with  this  playmate  of  their  childhood 
years,  together  with  the  many  stirring  tales  that 
John  had  told  of  his  comrade  captain's  life  in  France, 
could  not  but  awaken  her  interest  in  the  boy  lover 
whom  she  had,  as  she  believed,  so  successfully 
forgotten.  The  puzzling  change  in  her  brother's 
life  interests,  his  neglect  of  so  many  of  his  pre-war 

210 


HER  OWN  PEOPLE 


associates  and  his  persistent  comradeship  with  his 
fellow  workman,  had  kept  alive  that  interest;  while 
Captain  Martin's  repeated  refusals  to  accept  John's 
invitations  to  the  big  home  on  the  hill  had  curiously 
touched  her  woman's  pride  and  at  the  same  tune 
had  compelled  her  respect. 

The  clash  between  John's  new  industrial  and 
social  convictions  and  the  class  consciousness  to 
which  she  had  been  so  carefully  schooled,  with  its 
background  of  her  father's  wretched  mental  condi 
tion,  the  unhappiness  of  her  home  and  her  own 
repeated  failures  to  find  contentment  in  the  privileges 
of  material  wealth,  raised  hi  her  mind  questions  which 
she  had  never  before  faced. 

Her  talks  with  the  Interpreter,  the  slow  form 
ing  of  the  lines  of  the  approaching  industrial  struggle, 
with  the  sharpening  of  the  contrast  between 
Mclver  and  John,  her  acquaintance  with  Bobby 
and  Maggie,  even — all  tended  to  drive  her  on  in  her 
search  for  the  answer  to  her  problem. 

And  so  she  had  been  carried  to  the  Martin  cottage 
— to  her  talk  with  John  at  the  old  house — to  the 
Mill— to  this. 

As  one  may  intuitively  sense  the  crisis  hi  a  great 
struggle  between  life  and  death,  this  woman  knew 
that  in  this  man  all  her  disturbing  life  questions  were 
centered.  Deep  beneath  the  many  changes  that 
her  father's  material  success  hi  life  had  brought  to 
her,  one  unalterable  life  fact  asserted  itself  with 
startling  power:  It  was  this  man  who  had  first 
awakened  in  her  the  consciousness  of  her  woman 
hood.  Face  to  face  with  this  workman  in  her 

211 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

father's  Mill,  she  fought  to  control  the  situation. 

To  all  outward  appearances  she  did  control  it. 
Her  brother  saw  only  a  reserved  interest  in  his 
workman  comrade.  Captain  Martin  saw  only  the 
daughter  of  his  employer  who  had  so  coldly  pre 
ferred  her  newer  friends  to  the  less  pretentious 
companions  of  her  girlhood. 

But  beneath  the  commonplace  remarks  demanded 
by  the  occasion,  the  Helen  of  the  old  house  was 
struggling  for  supremacy.  The  spirit  that  she 
had  felt  in  the  office  when  John  talked  with  his  fel 
low  workmen,  she  felt  now  hi  the  presence  of  this 
workman.  The  power,  the  strength,  the  bigness, 
the  meaning  of  the  Mill,  as  it  had  come  to  her,  were 
all  personified  in  him.  A  strange  exultation  of 
possession  lifted  her  up.  She  was  hungry  for  her 
own;  she  wanted  to  cry  out:  "This  work  is  my 
work — these  people  are  my  people — this  man  is 
my  man!" 

It  was  Captain  Charlie  who  ended  the  interview 
with  the  excuse  that  the  big  machine  needed  his 
immediate  attention.  He  had  stood  as  they  talked 
with  a  hand  on  one  of  the  controls  and  several  times 
he  had  turned  a  watchful  eye  on  his  charge.  It  was 
almost,  Helen  thought  with  a  little  thrill  of  triumph, 
as  though  the  man  sought  in  the  familiar  touch 
of  his  iron  and  steel  a  calmness  and  self-control  that 
he  needed.  But  now,  when  he  turned  to  give  his 
attention  wholly  to  his  work,  with  the  effect  of 
politely  dismissing  her,  she  felt  as  though  he  had 
suddenly,  if  ever  so  politely,  closed  a  door  in  her  face. 

John  must  have  felt  it  a  little,  too,  for  he  became 
212 


HER  OWN  PEOPLE 


rather  quiet  as  they  went  on  and  soon  concluded 
their  inspection  of  the  plant. 

At  the  office  door,  Helen  paused  and  turned  to  look 
back,  as  if  reluctant  to  leave  the  scene  that  had  now 
such  meaning  for  her,  while  her  brother  stood 
silently  watching  her.  Not  until  they  were  back  in 
the  manager's  office  and  Helen  was  ready  to  return 
to  the  outside  world  did  John  Ward  speak. 

Facing  her  with  his  straightforward  soldierly 
manner,  he  said,  inquiringly,  "Well?" 

She  returned  his  look  with  steady  frankness.  "I 
can't  tell  you  what  I  think  about  it  all  now,  John 
dear.  Sometime,  perhaps,  I  may  try.  It  is  too 
big — too  vital — too  close.  I  am  glad  I  came.  I 
am  sorry,  too." 

So  he  took  her  to  her  waiting  car. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  looking  thoughtfully  after 
the  departing  machine  and  then,  with  an  odd  little 
smile,  went  back  to  his  work. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

INSTHE  NIGHT 

HELEN  knew,  even  as  she  told  the  chauffeur 
to  drive  her  home,  that  she  did  not  wish  to 
return  just  then  to  the  big  house  on  the  hill. 
Her  mind  was  too  crowded  with  thoughts  she  could 
not  entertain  in  the  atmosphere  of  her  home;   her 
heart  was  too  deeply  moved  by  emotions  that  she 
scarcely  dared  acknowledge  even  to  herself. 

She  thought  of  the  country  club,  but  that,  in  her 
present  mood,  was  impossible.  The  Interpreter — 
she  was  about  to  tell  Tom  that  she  wished  to  call  at 
the  hut  on  the  cliff,  but  decided  against  it.  She 
feared  that  she  might  reveal  to  the  old  basket  maker 
things  that  she  wished  to  hide.  She  might  go  for  a 
drive  in  the  country,  but  she  shrank  from  being  alone. 
She  wanted  some  one  who  could  take  her  out  of  her 
self — some  one  to  whom  she  could  talk  without 
betraying  herself. 

Not  far  from  the  Mill  a  number  of  children  were 
playing  in  the  dusty  road. 

Helen  did  not  notice  the  youngsters,  but  Tom, 
being  a  careful  driver,  slowed  down,  even  though 
they  were  already  scurrying  aside  for  the  automobile 
to  pass. 

Suddenly  she  was  startled  by  a  shrill  yell.  "Hello, 
there!  Hello,  Miss!" 

214 


IN  THE  NIGHT 


Bobby  Whaley,  in  his  frantic  efforts  to  attract 
her  attention,  was  jumping  up  and  down,  waving  his 
cap  and  screeching  like  a  wild  boy,  while  his  com 
panions  looked  on  in  wide-eyed  wonder,  half  hi  awe 
at  his  daring,  half  in  fear  of  the  possible  consequence. 

To  the  everlasting  honor  and  glory  of  Sam 
Whaley's  son,  the  automobile  stopped.  The  lady, 
looking  back,  called,  "Hello,  Bobby!"  and  waited 
expectantly  for  him  to  approach. 

With  a  look  of  haughty  triumph  at  Skinny  and 
Chuck,  the  lad  swaggered  forward,  a  grin  of  over 
powering  delight  at  his  achievement  on  his  dirty, 
freckled  countenance. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  called  to  me,"  Helen  said,  when 
he  was  close.  "I  was  just  wishing  for  some  one  to 
go  with  me  for  a  ride  in  the  country.  Would  you 
like  to  come?" 

"Gee,"  returned  the  urchin,  "I'll  say  I  would." 

"Do  you  think  your  mother  would  be  willing  for 
you  to  go?" 

"Lord,  yes — ma,  she  ain't  a-carin'  where  we  kids 
are  jest  so's  we  ain't  under  her  feet  when  she's 
a-workin'." 

"And  could  you  find  Maggie,  do  you  think?  Per 
haps  she  would  enjoy  the  ride,  too." 

Bobby  lifted  up  his  voice  in  a  shrill  yell,  "Mag! 
Oh— oh— Mag!" 

The  excited  cry  was  caught  up  by  the  watching 
children,  and  the  neighborhood  echoed  then*  calls. 
"Mag!  Oh,  Mag!  Somebody  wants  yer,  Mag! 
Come  a-runnin' .  Hurry  up ! " 

Then*  united  efforts  were  not  in  vain.  From  the 
215 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

rear  of  a  near-by  house  little  Maggie  appeared. 
A  dirty,  faded  old  shawl  was  wrapped  about  her 
tiny  waist,  hiding  her  bare  feet  and  trailing  behind. 
A  sorry  wreck  of  a  hat  trimmed  with  three  chicken 
feathers  crowned  her  uncombed  hair,  and  the  ragged 
remnants  of  a  pair  of  black  cotton  gloves  completed 
her  elegant  costume.  In  her  thin  little  arms  she  held, 
with  tender  mother  care,  a  doll  so  battered  and  worn 
by  its  long  service  that  one  wondered  at  the  imagi 
native  power  of  the  child  who  could  make  of  it  any 
thing  but  a  shapeless  bundle  of  dirty  rags. 

"Get  a  move  on  yer,  Mag!"  yelled  the  masterful 
Bobby,  with  frantic  gestures.  "The  princess  lady 
is  a-goin'  t'  take  us  fer  a  ride  in  her  swell  limerseen 
with  her  driver  'n'  everything." 

For  one  unbelieving  moment,  little  Maggie  turned 
to  the  two  miniature  ladies  who,  in  costumes  that 
rivaled  her  own,  had  come  to  ask  the  cause  of  this 
unseemly  disturbance  of  their  social  affair.  Then, 
at  another  shout  from  her  brother,  she  discarded  her 
finery  and,  holding  fast  to  her  doll  with  true  mother 
instinct,  hurried  timidly  to  the  waiting  automobile. 

On  that  day  when  Helen  had  sent  her  servant  to 
take  them  for  a  ride,  these  children  of  the  Flats  had 
thought  that  no  greater  happiness  was  possible  to 
mere  human  beings.  But  now,  as  they  sat  with 
theu*  beautiful  princess  lady  between  them  on  the 
deep-cushioned  seat,  and  watched  the  familiar 
houses  glide  swiftly  past,  even  Bobby  was  silent. 
It  was  all  so  unreal — so  like  a  dream.  Their  former 
experience  was  so  far  surpassed  that  they  would  not 

216 


IN  THE  NIGHT 


have  been  surprised  had  the  automobile  been  sud 
denly  transformed  into  a  magic  ship  of  the  air,  with 
Tom  a  fairy  pilot  to  carry  them  away  up  among  the 
clouds  to  some  wonderful  sunshine  castle  in  the  sky. 

It  is  true  that  Bobby's  conscience  stirred  uneasily 
when  he  felt  an  arm  steal  gently  about  him  and  he 
was  drawn  a  little  closer  to  the  princess  lady's 
side.  A  feller  with  a  proper  pride  does  not  readily 
permit  such  familiarities.  It  had  been  a  long  tune 
since  any  one  had  put  an  arm  around  Bobby — he 
did  not  quite  understand. 

But  as  for  that,  the  princess  lady  herself  did 
not  quite  understand  either.  Perhaps  the  sight  of 
little  Maggie  and  her  play  lady  friends  so  elegantly 
costumed  for  their  social  function  had  suddenly 
convinced  her  that  these  children  of  the  Flats  were 
of  her  world  after  all.  Perhaps  the  shouting  children 
had  awakened  memories  that  banished  for  the 
moment  the  sadness  of  her  grown-up  years.  Or  it 
may  have  been  simply  the  way  that  wee  Maggie 
held  her  battered  doll.  It  may  have  been  that  the 
mother  instinct  of  this  wistful  mite  of  humanity 
quickened  in  the  heart  of  the  young  woman  some 
thing  that  was  deeper,  more  vital,  more  real  to  her 
womanhood  than  the  things  to  which  she  had  so  far 
given  herself.  As  the  Helen  of  the  old  house  had 
longed  to  cry  aloud  in  the  Mill  her  recognition  of 
her  man,  she  hungered  now  with  a  strange  woman 
hunger  for  the  feel  of  a  child  in  her  arms. 

And  so,  with  no  care  for  her  gown,  which  was  sure 
to  be  ruined  by  this  contact  with  the  grime  of  the 
Flats,  with  no  question  as  to  what  people  might 

217 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

think,  with  no  thought  for  class  standards  or  nidus- 
trial  problems,  the  daughter  of  Adam  Ward  took  the 
children  of  Sam  Whaley  in  her  arms  and  carried 
them  away  from  the  shadow  of  that  dark  cloud  that 
hung  always  above  the  Mill.  From  the  smoke  and 
dust  and  filth  of  their  heritage,  she  took  them  into 
the  clean,  sunny  air  of  the  hillside  fields  and  woods. 
From  the  hovels  and  shanties  of  their  familiar 
haunts  she  took  them  where  birds  made  their  nests 
and  the  golden  bees  and  bright-winged  butterflies 
were  busy  among  their  flowers.  From  the  squalid 
want  and  cruel  neglect  of  their  poverty  she  took 
them  into  a  fairyland  that  was  overflowing  with  the 
riches  that  belong  to  childhood. 

And  then,  when  the  sun  was  red  above  the  bluff 
where  the  curving  line  of  cliffs  end  at  the  river's 
edge,  she  brought  them  back. 

For  some  reason  that  has  never  been  made  satis 
factorily  clear  by  the  wise  ones  who  lead  the  world's 
thinking,  Bobby  and  Maggie  must  always  be  brought 
back  to  their  home  hi  the  Flats,  the  princess  lady 
must  always  return  to  her  castle  on  the  hill. 

Charlie  Martin  was  unusually  quiet  when  he 
returned  home  from  his  work  that  day.  The  father 
mentioned  Helen's  visit  to  the  Mill,  and  Mary  had 
many  questions  to  ask,  but  the  soldier  workman, 
usually  so  ready  to  talk  and  laugh  with  his  sister, 
answered  only  in  monosyllables  or  silently  permitted 
the  older  man  to  carry  the  burden  of  the  conversa 
tion. 

When  supper  was  over  and  it  was  dark,  Charlie, 
218 


IN   THE  NIGHT 


saying  that  he  thought  he  ought  to  attend  Jake 
Vodell's  street  meeting  that  evening,  left  the 
house. 

But  Captain  Charlie  did  not  go  to  hear  the  agi 
tator's  soap-box  oration  that  night.  For  an  hour 
or  more,  under  cover  of  the  darkness,  the  workman 
sat  on  the  porch  of  the  old  house  next  door  to  his 
home. 

He  had  pushed  aside  the  broken  gate  and  made  his 
way  up  the  weed-tangled  walk  so  quietly  that 
neither  his  sister  nor  his  father,  who  were  on  the 
porch  of  the  cottage,  heard  a  sound.  So  still  was  he 
that  two  neighborhood  lovers,  who  paused  in  then* 
slow  walk,  as  if  tempted  by  the  friendly  shadow  of 
the  lonely  old  place,  did  not  know  that  he  was  there. 
Then  at  something  her  father  said,  Mary's  laugh  rang 
out,  and  the  lovers  moved  on. 

A  little  later  Captain  Charlie  stole  softly  out  of 
the  yard  and  up  the  street  in  the  direction  from  which 
Helen  had  come  the  day  of  her  visit  to  the  old  house. 
When  the  sound  of  his  feet  on  the  walk  could  not  be 
heard  at  the  cottage,  the  workman  walked  briskly, 
taking  the  way  that  led  toward  the  Interpreter's  hut. 

One  who  knew  him  would  have  thought  that  he 
was  going  for  an  evening  call  on  the  old  basket 
maker.  He  saw  the  light  of  the  little  house  on  the 
cliff  presently,  and  for  a  moment  walked  slowly,  as  if 
debating  whether  or  not  he  should  go  on  as  he  had 
intended.  Then  he  turned  off  from  the  way  to  the 
Interpreter's  and  took  that  seldom  used  road  that  led 
up  the  hill  toward  the  home  of  Adam  Ward.  With 
a  strong,  easy  stride  he  swung  up  the  grade  until  he 

219 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

came  to  the  corner  of  the  iron  fence.  Slowly  and 
quietly  he  moved  on  now  in  the  deeper  shadows  of 
the  trees.  When  he  could  see  the  gloomy  mass  of 
the  house  unobstructed  against  the  sky,  he  stopped. 

The  lower  floor  was  brightly  lighted.  The  win 
dows  above  were  dark.  With  his  back  against  the 
trunk  of  a  tree  Captain  Charlie  waited. 

An  automobile  came  out  between  the  stone  col 
umns  of  the  big  gate  and  thundered  away  down  the 
street  with  reckless  speed.  Adam  Ward,  thought 
the  man  under  the  tree — even  John  never  drove  like 
that.  And  he  wondered  where  the  old  Mill  owner 
could  be  going  at  such  an  hour  of  the  night. 

Still  he  waited. 

Suddenly  a  light  flashed  out  from  the  windows  of 
an  upper  room.  A  moment,  and  the  watcher  saw 
the  form  of  a  woman  framed  in  the  casement  against 
the  bright  background.  For  some  time  she  stood 
there,  her  face,  shaded  by  her  hands,  pressed  close 
to  the  glass,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  see  into  the 
darkness  of  the  night.  Then  she  drew  back.  The 
shade  was  drawn. 

Very  slowly  Captain  Charlie  went  back  down  the 
hiU. 


BOOK  III 
THE   STRIKE 

0  flashing  muzzles,  pause,  and  let  them  see 
The  coming  dawn  that  streaks  the  sky  afar; 

Then  let  your  mighty  chorus  witness  be 

To  them,  and  Caesar,  that  we  still  make  war." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  GATHERING  STORM 

IN  the  weeks  immediately  following  her  visit  to 
the  Mill,  Helen  Ward  met  the  demands  of  her 
world  apparently  as  usual.  If  any  one  noticed 
that  she  failed  to  enter  into  the  affairs  of  her  asso 
ciates  with  the  same  lively  interest  which  had  made 
her  a  leader  among  those  who  do  nothing  stren 
uously,  they  attributed  it  to  her  father's  ill  health. 
And  in  this  they  were  partially  right.  Ever  since 
the  day  when  she  half  revealed  her  fears  to  the 
Interpreter,  the  young  woman's  feeling  that  her 
father's  ill  health  and  the  unhappiness  of  her  home 
were  the  result  of  some  hidden  thing,  had  gamed  hi 
strength.  Since  her  meeting  with  Captain  Charlie 
there  had  been  in  her  heart  a  deepening  conviction 
that,  but  for  this  same  hidden  thing,  she  would 
have  known  in  all  its  fullness  a  happiness  of  which 
she  could  now  only  dream. 

More  frequently  than  ever  before,  she  went  now 
to  sit  with  the  Interpreter  on  the  balcony  porch  of 
that  little  hut  on  the  cliff.  But  Bobby  and  Maggie 
wished  in  vain  for  then*  princess  lady  to  come  and 
take  them  again  into  the  land  of  trees  and  birds  and 
flowers  and  sunshiny  hills  and  clean  blue  sky.  Often, 
now,  she  went  to  meet  her  brother  when  his  day's 
work  was  done,  and,  sending  Tom  home  with  her 
big  car,  she  would  go  with  John  in  his  roadster.  And 

223 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

always  while  he  told  her  of  the  Mill  and  led  her 
deeper  into  the  meaning  of  the  industry  and  its 
relation  to  the  life  of  the  people,  she  listened  with 
eager  interest.  But  she  did  not  go  again  to  the 
Martin  cottage  or  visit  the  old  house. 

Once  at  the  foot  of  the  Interpreter's  zigzag  stair 
way  she  met  Captain  Martin  and  greeted  him  in 
passing.  Two  or  three  tunes  she  caught  a  glimpse 
of  him  among  the  men  coming  from  the  Mill  as  she 
waited  for  John  in  front  of  the  office.  That  was  all. 
But  always  she  was  conscious  of  him.  When  from  the 
Interpreter's  hut  she  watched  the  twisting  columns 
of  smoke  rising  from  the  tall  stacks,  her  thoughts 
were  with  the  workman  who  somewhere  under  that 
cloud  was  doing  his  full  share  in  the  industrial  army 
of  his  people.  When  John  talked  to  her  of  the  Mill 
and  its  meaning,  her  heart  was  glad  for  her  brother's 
loyal  comradeship  with  this  man  who  had  been  his 
captain  over  there.  The  very  sound  of  the  deep- 
toned  whistle  that  carried  to  Adam  Ward  the 
proud  realization  of  his  material  possessions  carried 
to  his  daughter  thoughts  of  what,  but  for  those  same 
material  possessions,  might  have  been. 

For  relief  she  turned  to  Mclver.  There  was  a 
rocklike  quality  hi  the  factory  owner  that  had 
always  appealed  to  her.  His  convictions  were  so  un 
wavering — his  judgments  so  final.  Mclver  never 
doubted  Mclver.  He  never,  in  his  own  mind,  ques 
tioned  what  he  did  by  the  standards  of  right  and 
justice.  The  only  question  he  ever  asked  himself 
was,  Would  Mclver  win  or  lose?  Any  suggestion 
of  a  difference  of  opinion  on  the  part  of  another  was 

224 


THE   GATHERING  STORM 


taken  as  a  personal  insult  that  was  not  to  be  tolerated. 
Therefore,  because  the  man  was  what  he  was,  his 
class  convictions  were  deeply  grounded,  fixed  and 
certain.  In  the  turmoil  of  her  warring  thoughts  and 
disturbed  emotions  Helen  felt  her  own  balance  so 
shaken  that  she  instinctively  reached  out  to  steady 
herself  by  him.  The  man,  feeling  her  turn  to  him, 
pressed  his  suit  with  all  the  ardor  she  would  permit, 
for  he  saw  in  his  success  not  only  possession  of  the 
woman  he  wanted,  but  the  overthrow  of  John's 
opposition  to  his  business  plans  and  the  consequent 
triumph  of  his  personal  material  interests  and  the 
interests  of  his  class.  But,  in  spite  of  the  relief  she 
gained  from  the  strength  of  Mclver's  convictions, 
some  strange  influence  within  herself  prevented  her 
from  yielding.  She  probably  would  yield  at  last, 
she  told  herself  drearily — because  there  seemed  to 
be  nothing  else  for  her  to  do. 

Meanwhile,  from  his  hut  on  the  cliff,  the  Inter 
preter  watched  the  approach  of  the  industrial  storm. 

The  cloud  that  had  appeared  on  the  Millsburgh 
horizon  with  the  coming  of  Jake  Vodell  had  steadily 
assumed  more  threatening  proportions  until  now  it 
hung  dark  with  gloomy  menace  above  the  work  and 
the  homes  of  the  people.  To  the  man  in  the  wheel 
chair,  looking  out  upon  the  scene  that  lay  with  all  its 
varied  human  interests  before  him,  there  was  no 
bit  of  life  anywhere  that  was  not  in  the  shadow  of  the 
gathering  storm.  The  mills  and  factories  along  the 
river,  the  stores  and  banks  and  interests  of  the  busi 
ness  section,  the  farms  in  the  valley,  the  wretched 

225 


HELEN  OF   THE  OLD   HOUSE 

Flats,  the  cottage  homes  of  the  workmen  and  the 
homes  on  the  hillside,  were  all  alike  in  the  path  of  the 
swiftly  approaching  danger. 

The  people  with  anxious  eyes  watched  for  the 
storm  to  break  and  made  such  hurried  preparations 
as  they  could.  They  heard  the  dull,  muttering 
sound  of  its  heavy  voice  and  looked  at  one  another 
in  silent  dread  or  talked,  neighbor  to  neighbor,  in  low 
tones.  A  strange  hush  was  over  this  community  of 
American  citizens.  In  their  work,  in  their  pleasures, 
in  their  home  life,  in  their  love  and  happiness,  in 
their  very  sorrows,  they  felt  the  deadening  presence 
of  this  dread  thing  that  was  sweeping  upon  them 
from  somewhere  beyond  the  borders  of  their  native 
land.  And  against  this  death  that  filled  the  air 
they  seemingly  knew  not  how  to  defend  themselves. 

This,  to  the  Interpreter,  was  the  almost  unbeliev 
able  tragedy — that  the  people  should  not  know  what 
to  do;  that  they  should  not  have  given  more  thought 
to  making  the  structure  of  their  citizenship  storm 
proof. 

"The  great  trouble  is  that  the  people  don't  line 
up  right,"  said  Captain  Charlie  to  John  and  the 
Interpreter  one  evening  as  the  workman  and  the 
general  manager  were  sitting  with  the  old  basket 
maker  on  the  balcony  porch. 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  Charlie?" 
asked  John.  The  man  in  the  wheel  chair  was 
nodding  his  assent  to  the  union  man's  remark. 

"I  mean,"  Charlie  explained,  "that  the  people 
consider  only  capital  and  labor,  or  workmen  and 

226 


THE   GATHERING  STORM 


business  men.  They  put  loyal  American  workmen 
and  imperialist  workmen  all  together  on  one  side  and 
loyal  American  business  men  and  imperialist  business 
men  all  together  on  the  other.  They  line  up  all  em 
ployees  against  all  employers.  For  example,  as 
the  people  see  it,  you  and  I  are  enemies  and  the  Mill 
is  our  battle  ground.  The  fact  is  that  the  imperial 
ist  manual  workman  is  as  much  my  enemy  as.  he  is 
yours.  The  imperialist  business  man  is  as  much 
your  enemy  as  he  is  mine." 

"You  are  exactly  right,  Charlie,"  said  the  Inter 
preter.  "And  that  is  the  first  thing  that  the  Big 
Idea  applied  to  our  industries  will  do — it  will  line 
up  the  great  body  of  loyal  American  workmen  that 
you  represent  with  the  great  body  of  loyal  American 
business  men  that  John  represents  against  the 
Mclvers  of  capital  and  the  Jake  Vodells  of  labor. 
And  that  new  line-up  alone  would  practically  insure 
victory.  Nine  tenths  of  our  industrial  troubles 
are  due  to  the  fact  that  employers  and  employees 
alike  fail  to  recognize  their  real  enemies  and  so  fight 
their  friends  as  often  as  they  fight  their  foes. 

"The  people  must  learn  to  call  an  industrial 
slacker  a  slacker,  whether  he  loafs  on  a  park  bench  or 
loafs  on  the  veranda  of  the  country  club  house. 
They  have  to  recognize  that  a  traitor  to  the  indus 
tries  is  a  traitor  to  the  nation  and  that  he  is  a  traitor 
whether  he  works  at  a  bench  or  runs  a  bank.  They 
have  to  say  to  the  imperialist  of  business  and  to  the 
imperialist  of  labor  alike,  'The  industries  of  this 
country  are  not  for  you  or  your  class  alone,  they  are 
for  all  because  the  very  life  of  the  nation  is  in  them 

227 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

and  is  dependent  upon  them.'  When  the  people 
of  this  country  learn  to  draw  the  lines  of  class  where 
they  really  belong  there  will  be  an  end  to  our  indus 
trial  wars  and  to  all  the  suffering  that  they  cause." 

"If  only  the  people  could  be  lined  up  and  made 
to  declare  themselves  openly,"  said  John,  "Jake 
Vodell  would  have  about  as  much  chance  to  make 
trouble  among  us  as  the  German  Crown  Prince 
would  have  had  among  the  French  Blue  Devils." 

Charlie  laughed. 

"Which  means,  I  suppose,"  said  the  Interpreter, 
"that  there  would  be  a  riot  to  see  who  could  lay 
hands  on  him  first." 

The  storm  broke  at  Mclver's  factory.  It  was  as 
Jake  Vodell  had  told  the  Interpreter  it  would  be — 
"easy  to  find  a  grievance." 

Mclver  declared  that  before  he  would  yield  to 
the  demands  of  his  workmen,  his  factory  should 
stand  idle  until  the  buildings  rotted  to  the  ground. 

The  agitator  answered  that  before  his  men  would 
yield  they  would  make  Millsburgh  as  a  city  of  the 
dead. 

Two  or  three  of  the  other  smaller  unions  supported 
Mclver's  employees  with  sympathetic  strikes.  But 
the  success  or  failure  of  Jake  Vodell's  campaign 
quickly  turned  on  the  action  of  the  powerful  Mill 
workers'  union.  The  commander-in-chief  of  the 
striking  forces  must  win  John  Ward's  employees 
to  his  cause  or  suffer  defeat.  He  bent  every  effort 
to  that  end. 

Sam  Whaley  and  a  few  like  him  walked  out.  But 
228 


THE   GATHERING  STORM 


that  was  expected  by  everybody,  for  Sam  Whaley 
had  identified  himself  from  the  day  of  VodelFs 
arrival  in  Millsburgh  as  the  agitator's  devoted  fol 
lower  and  right-hand  man.  But  this  unstable, 
whining  weakling  and  his  fellows  from  the  Flats 
carried  little  influence  with  the  majority  of  the 
sturdy,  clearer- visioned  workmen. 

At  a  meeting  of  the  Millsburgh  Manufacturing 
Association,  Mclver  endeavored  to  pledge  the  organi 
zation  to  a  concerted  effort  against  the  various 
unions  of  their  workmen. 

John  Ward  refused  to  enter  into  any  such  alliance 
against  the  workmen,  and  branded  Mclver's  plan  as 
being  in  spirit  and  purpose  identical  with  the 
schemes  of  Jake  Vodell.  John  argued  that  while 
the  heads  of  the  various  related  mills  and  factories 
possessed  the  legal  right  to  maintain  their  organiza 
tion  for  the  purpose  of  furthering  such  business 
interests  as  were  common  to  them  all,  they  could  not, 
as  loyal  citizens,  attempt  to  deprive  their  fellow 
workmen  citizens  of  that  same  right.  Any  such  effort 
to  array  class  against  class,  he  declared,  was  nothing 
less  than  sheer  imperialism,  and  antagonistic  to 
every  principle  of  American  citizenship. 

When  Mclver  characterized  Vodell  as  an  anar 
chist  and  stated  that  the  unions  were  back  of  him  and 
his  schemes  against  the  government,  John  retorted 
warmly  that  the  statement  was  false  and  an  insult 
to  many  of  the  most  loyal  citizens  in  Millsburgh. 
There  were  individual  members  of  the  unions  who 
were  followers  of  Jake  Vodell,  certainly.  But  com 
paratively  few  of  the  union  men  who  were  led  by  the 

229 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

agitator  to  strike  realized  the  larger  plans  of  their 
leader,  while  the  unions  as  a  whole  no  more  endorsed 
anarchy  than  did  the  Manufacturing  Association. 

Mclver  then  drew  for  his  fellow  manufacturers  a 
very  true  picture  of  the  industrial  troubles  through 
out  the  country,  and  pointed  out  clearly  and  con 
vincingly  the  national  dangers  that  lay  in  the 
threatening  conditions.  Millsburgh  was  in  no  way 
different  from  thousands  of  other  communities. 
If  the  employers  could  not  defend  themselves  by  an 
organized  effort  against  their  employees,  he  would 
like  Mr.  Ward  to  explain  who  would  defend  them. 

To  all  of  which  John  answered  that  it  was  not  a 
question  of  employers  defending  themselves  against 
their  employees.  The  owners  had  no  more  at  stake 
in  the  situation  than  did  their  workmen,  for  the 
lives  of  all  were  equally  dependent  upon  the  indus 
tries  that  were  threatened  with  destruction.  In 
the  revolution  that  Jake  VodelFs  brotherhood  was 
fomenting  the  American  employers  could  lose  no 
more  than  would  the  American  employees.  The 
question  was,  How  could  American  industries  be 
protected  against  both  the  imperialistic  employer 
and  the  imperialistic  employee?  The  answer  was, 
By  the  united  strength  of  the  loyal  American  em 
ployers  and  employees,  openly  arrayed  against  the 
teachings  and  leadership  of  Jake  Vodell,  on  the  one 
hand,  and  equally  against  all  such  principles  and 
actions  as  had  been  proposed  by  Mr.  Mclver,  on  the 
other. 

When  the  meeting  closed,  Mclver  had  failed  to 
gain  the  support  of  the  association. 

230 


THE   GATHERING   STORM 


Realizing  that  without  the  Mill  he  could  never 
succeed  in  his  plans,  the  factory  owner  appealed  to 
Adam  Ward  himself. 

The  old  Mill  owner,  in  full  accord  with  Mclver, 
attempted  to  force  John  into  line.  But  the  younger 
man  refused  to  enlist  hi  any  class  war  against  his 
loyal  fellow  workmen. 

Adam  stormed  and  threatened  and  predicted 
utter  ruin.  John  calmly  offered  to  resign.  The 
father  refused  to  listen  to  this,  on  the  ground  that 
his  ill  health  did  not  permit  him  to  assume  again  the 
management  of  the  business,  and  that  he  would 
never  consent  to  the  Mill's  being  operated  by  any 
one  outside  the  family. 

When  Helen  returned  to  her  home  in  the  early 
evening,  she  found  her  father  in  a  state  of  mind 
bordering  on  insanity. 

Striding  here  and  there  about  the  rooms  with 
uncontrollable  nervous  energy,  he  roared,  as  he 
always  did  on  such  occasions,  about  his  sole  owner 
ship  of  the  Mill — the  legality  of  the  patents  that 
gave  him  possession  of  the  new  process — how  it  was 
his  genius  and  hard  work  alone  that  had  built  up 
the  Mill — that  no  one  should  take  his  possessions 
from  him — waving  his  arms  and  shaking  his  fists  in 
violent,  meaningless  gestures.  With  his  face  twitch 
ing  and  working  and  his  eyes  blazing  with  excitement 
and  rage,  his  voice  rose  almost  to  a  scream:  "Let 
them  try  to  take  anything  away  from  me!  I  know 
what  they  are  going  to  do,  but  they  can't  do  it.  I've 
had  the  best  lawyers  that  I  could  hire  and  I've  got 
it  all  tied  up  so  tight  that  no  one  can  touch  it. 

231 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

I  could  have  thrown  Pete  Martin  out  of  the  Mill  any 
time  I  wanted.  He  has  no  claim  on  me  that  any 
court  hi  the  world  would  recognize.  Let  him  try 
anything  he  dares.  I'll  starve  him  to  death — I'll 
turn  him  into  the  streets — he  hasn't  a  thing  hi  the 
world  that  he  didn't  get  by  working  for  me.  I 
made  him — I  will  ruin  him.  You  all  think  that  I  am 
sick — you  think  that  I  am  crazy — that  I  don't 
know  what  I  am  talking  about.  I'll  show  you — 
you'll  see  what  will  happen  if  they  start  any 
thing- 

The  piteous  exhibition  ended  as  usual.  As  if 
driven  by  some  invisible  fiend,  the  man  rushed  from 
the  presence  of  those  whom  he  most  loved  to  the 
dreadful  company  of  his  own  fearful  and  monstrous 
thoughts. 

And  the  room  where  the  wife  and  children  of 
Adam  Ward  sat  was  filled  with  the  presence  of  that 
hidden  thing  of  which  they  dared  not  speak. 

Everywhere  throughout  the  city  the  people  were 
discussing  John  Ward's  opposition  to  Mclver. 

The  community,  tense  with  feeling,  waited  for  an 
answer  to  the  vital  question,  What  would  the  Mill 
workers'  union  do?  Upon  the  answer  of  John  Ward's 
employees  to  the  demands  of  the  agitator  for  a  sym 
pathetic  strike  depended  the  success  or  failure  of 
Jake  Vodell's  Millsburgh  campaign. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ADAM   WARD'S  WORK 

IT  was  evening.  The  Interpreter  was  sitting  in 
his  wheel  chair  on  the  balcony  porch  with 
silent  Billy  not  far  away.  Beyond  the  hills  on 
the  west  the  sky  was  faintly  glowing  in  the  last  of 
the  sun's  light.  The  Flats  were  deep  in  gloomy 
shadows  out  of  which  the  grim  stacks  of  the  Mill 
rose  toward  the  smoky  darkness  of  their  overhanging 
cloud.  Here  and  there  among  the  poor  homes  of  the 
workers  a  lighted  window  or  a  lonely  street  lamp 
shone  in  the  murky  dusk.  But  the  lights  of  the 
business  section  of  the  city  gleamed  and  sparkled 
like  clusters  and  strings  of  jewels,  while  the  resi 
dence  districts  on  the  hillside  were  marked  by  hun 
dreds  of  twinkling,  starlike  points. 

The  quiet  was  rudely  broken  by  a  voice  at  the 
outer  doorway  of  the  hut.  The  tone  was  that  of 
boisterous  familiarity.  " Hello!  hello  there!  Any 
body  home?" 

"Here,"  answered  the  Interpreter.  "Come  in. 
Or,  I  should  say,  come  out,"  he  added,  as  his  visitor 
found  his  way  through  the  darkness  of  the  living 
room.  "A  night  like  this  is  altogether  too  fine  to 
spend  under  a  roof." 

"Why  in  thunder  don't  you  have  a  light?"  said 
the  visitor,  with  a  loud  freedom  carefully  calculated 
to  give  the  effect  of  old  and  privileged  comrade 
ship.  But  the  laugh  of  hearty  good  fellowship  which 

233 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

followed  his  next  remark  was  a  trifle  overdone 
"Ain't  afraid  of  bombs,  are  you?  Don't  you  know 
that  the  war  is  over  yet?  " 

The  Interpreter  obligingly  laughed  at  the  merry 
witticism,  as  he  answered,  "  There  is  light  enough 
out  here  under  the  stars  to  think  by.  How  are  you, 
Adam  Ward?" 

From  where  he  stood  in  the  doorway,  Adam  could 
see  the  dim  figure  of  the  Interpreter's  companion 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  porch.  "Who  is  that 
with  you?"  demanded  the  Mill  owner  suspiciously. 

"Only  Billy  Rand,"  replied  the  man  in  the 
wheel  chair  reassuringly.  "Won't  you  sit  down? " 

Before  accepting  the  invitation  to  be  seated, 
Adam  advanced  upon  the  man  in  the  wheel  chair 
with  outstretched  hands,  as  if  eagerly  meeting  a 
most  intimate  friend  whose  regard  he  prized  above  all 
other  relationships  of  life.  Seizing  the  Interpreter's 
hand,  he  clung  to  it  in  an  excess  of  cordiality,  all  the 
while  pouring  out  between  short  laughs  of  pre 
tended  gladness,  a  hurried  volume  of  excuses  for 
having  so  long  delayed  calling  upon  his  dear  old 
friend.  To  any  one  at  all  acquainted  with  the  man, 
it  would  have  been  very  clear  that  he  wanted  some 
thing. 

"It  seems  ages  since  I  saw  you,"  he  declared,  as  he 
seated  himself  at  last.  "It's  a  shame  for  a  man  to 
neglect  an  old  friend  as  I  have  neglected  you." 

The  Interpreter  returned,  calmly,  "The  last  tune 
you  called  was  just  before  your  son  enlisted.  You 
wanted  me  to  help  you  keep  him  at  home." 

It  was  too  dark  to  see  Adam's  face.  "So  it  was,  I 
234 


ADAM  WARD'S  WORK 


remember  now."  There  was  a  suggestion  of  ner 
vousness  in  the  laugh  which  followed  his  words. 

"The  time  before  that,"  said  the  Interpreter 
evenly,  "was  when  Tom  Blair  was  killed  in  the  Mill. 
You  wanted  me  to  persuade  Tom's  widow  that  you 
were  in  no  way  liable  for  the  accident." 

The  barometer  of  Adam's  friendliness  dropped 
another  degree.  "That  affair  was  finally  settled  at 
five  thousand,"  he  said,  and  this  time  he  did  not 
laugh. 

"The  tune  before  that,"  said  the  Interpreter, 
"was  when  your  old  friend  Peter  Martin's  wife  died. 
You  wanted  me  to  explain  to  the  workmen  who 
attended  the  funeral  how  necessary  it  was  for  you  to 
take  that  hour  out  of  their  pay  checks." 

"You  have  a  good  memory,"  said  the  visitor, 
coldly,  as  he  stirred  uneasily  in  the  dusk. 

"I  have,"  agreed  the  man  hi  the  wheel  chair; 
"I  find  it  a  great  blessing  at  tunes.  It  is  the  only 
thing  that  preserves  my  sense  of  humor.  It  is  not 
always  easy  to  preserve  one's  sense  of  humor,  is  it, 
Adam  Ward?" 

When  the  Mill  owner  answered,  his  voice,  more 
than  his  words,  told  how  determined  he  was  to  hold 
his  ground  of  pleasant,  friendly  comradeship,  at 
least  until  he  had  gained  the  object  of  his  visit. 

"Don't  you  ever  get  lonesome  up  here?  Sort  of 
gloomy,  ain't  it — especially  at  nights?" 

"Oh,  no,"  returned  the  Interpreter;  "I  have  many 
interesting  callers;  there  are  always  my  work  and 
my  books  and  always,  night  and  day,  I  have  our 
Mill  over  there." 

235 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

"Heh!  What!  Our  Mill!  Where?  Oh,  I  see- 
yes — our  Mill — that's  good !  Our  Mill ! ' ' 

"  Surely  you  will  admit  that  I  have  some  small 
interest  in  the  Mill  where  we  once  worked  side  by 
side,  will  you  not,  Adam?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  laughed  Adam,  helping  on  the  jest. 
"But  let  me  see — I  don't  exactly  recall  the  amount  of 
your  investment — what  was  it  you  put  in?  " 

"Two  good  legs,  Adam  Ward,  two  good  legs," 
i  returned  the  old  basket  maker. 

Again  Adam  Ward  was  at  a  loss  for  an  answer. 
In  the  shadowy  presence  of  that  old  man  in  the 
wheel  chair  the  Mill  owner  was  as  a  wayward  child 
embarrassed  before  a  kindly  master. 

When  the  Interpreter  spoke  again  his  deep  voice 
was  colored  with  gentle  patience. 

"Why  have  you  come  to  me  like  this,  Adam  Ward? 
What  is  it  that  you  want?  " 

Adam  moved  uneasily.  "Why — nothing  par 
ticular — I  just  thought  I  would  call — happened 
to  be  going  by  and  saw  your  light." 

There  had  been  no  light  in  the  hut  that  evening. 
The  Interpreter  waited.  The  surrounding  darkness 
of  the  night  seemed  filled  with  warring  spirits  from 
the  gloomy  Flats,  the  mighty  Mill,  the  glittering 
streets  and  stores  and  the  cheerfully  lighted  homes. 

Adam  tried  to  make  his  voice  sound  casual,  but 
he  could  not  altogether  cover  the  nervous  intensity 
of  his  interest,  as  he  asked  the  question  that  was  so 
vital  to  the  entire  community.  "Will  the  Mill 
workers'  union  go  out  on  a  sympathetic  strike?" 

"No." 

236 


ADAM  WARD'S  WORK 


The  Mill  owner  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  "I 
judged  you  would  know." 

The  Interpreter  did  not  answer. 

Adam  spoke  with  more  confidence.  "I  suppose  you 
know  this  agitator  Jake  Vodell?" 

" I  know  who  he  is,"  replied  the  Interpreter.  "He 
is  a  well-known  representative  of  a  foreign  society 
that  is  seeking,  through  the  working  people  of  this 
country,  to  extend  its  influence  and  strengthen 
its  power." 

"The  unions  are  going  too  far,"  said  Adam. 
"The  people  won't  stand  for  their  bringing  in  a  man 
like  Vodell  to  preach  anarchy  and  stir  up  all  kinds  of 
trouble." 

The  Interpreter  spOKe  strongly.  "Jake  Vodell 
no  more  represents  the  great  body  of  American 
union  men  than  you,  Adam  Ward,  represent  the 
great  body  of  American  employers." 

"He  works  with  the  unions,  doesn't  he?" 

"Yes,  but  that  does  not  make  him  a  representative 
of  the  union  men  as  a  whole,  any  more  than  the  fact 
that  your  work  with  the  great  body  of  American  busi 
ness  men  makes  you  their  representative." 

"I  should  like  to  know  why  I  am  not  a  representa 
tive  American  business  man."  It  was  evident  from 
the  tone  of  his  voice  that  the  Mill  owner  controlled 
himself  with  an  effort. 

The  Interpreter  answered,  without  a  trace  of  per 
sonal  feeling,  "You  do  not  represent  them,  Adam 
Ward,  because  the  spirit  and  purpose  of  your  per 
sonal  business  career  is  not  the  spirit  and  purpose  of 
our  business  men  as  a  whole — just  as  the  spirit  and 

237 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

purpose  of  such  men  as  Jake  Vodell  is  not  the  spirit 
and  purpose  of  our  union  men  as  a  whole." 

"But,"  asserted  the  Mill  owner,  "it  is  men  like 
me  who  have  built  up  this  country.  Look  at  our 
railroads,  our  great  manufacturing  plants,  our  indus 
tries  of  all  kinds!  Look  what  I  have  done  for  Mills- 
burgh!  You  know  what  the  town  was  when  you 
first  came  here.  Look  at  it  now!" 

"The  new  process  has  indeed  wrought  great 
changes  in  Millsburgh,"  suggested  the  Interpreter. 

"The  new  process !  You  mean  that  I  have  wrought 
great  changes  in  Millsburgh.  What  would  the  new 
process  have  amounted  to  if  it  had  not  been  for  me? 
Why,  even  the  poor  old  fools  who  owned  the  Mill  at 
that  time  couldn't  have  done  anything  with  it.  I 
had  to  force  it  on  them.  And  then  when  I  had 
managed  to  get  it  installed  and  had  proved  what  it 
would  do,  I  made  them  increase  their  capitalization 
and  give  me  a  half  interest — told  them  if  they  didn't 
I  would  take  my  process  to  their  competitors  and 
put  them  out  of  business.  Later  I  managed  to  gain 
the  control  and  after  that  it  was  easy."  His  voice 
'  changed  to  a  tone  of  arrogant,  triumphant  boasting. 
"I  may  not  be  a  representative  business  man  in  your 
estimation,  but  my  work  stands  just  the  same.  No 
man  who  knows  anything  about  business  will  deny 
that  I  built  up  the  Mill  to  what  it  is  to-day." 

"And  that,"  returned  the  Interpreter,  "is  exactly 
what  Vodell  says  for  the  men  who  work  with  their 
hands  hi  cooperation  with  men  like  you  who  work 
with  their  brains.  You  say  that  you  built  the  Mill 
because  you  thought  and  planned  and  directed  its 

238 


ADAM  WARD'S  WORK 


building.  Jake  Vodeil  says  the  men  whose  physical 
strength  materialized  your  thoughts,  the  men  who 
carried  out  your  plans  and  toiled  under  your  direc 
tion  built  the  Mill.  And  you  and  Jake  are  both 
right  to  exactly  the  same  degree.  The  truth  is  that 
you  have  all  together  built  the  Mill.  You  have  no 
more  right  to  think  or  to  say  that  you  did  it  than 
Pete  Martin  has  to  think  or  to  say  that  he  did  it." 

When  Adam  Ward  found  no  answer  to  this  the 
Interpreter  continued.  "Consider  a  great  building: 
The  idea  of  the  structure  has  come  down  through  the 
ages  from  the  first  habitation  of  primitive  man. 
The  mental  strength  represented  in  the  structure  in 
its  every  detail  is  the  composite  thought  of  every 
generation  of  man  since  the  days  when  human  beings 
dwelt  hi  rocky  caves  and  in  huts  of  mud.  But 
listen:  The  capitalist  who  furnished  the  money  says 
he  did  it;  the  architect  says  he  did  it;  the  stone 
mason  says  he  did  it;  the  carpenter  says  he  did  it; 
the  mountains  that  gave  the  stone  say  they  did 
it ;  the  forests  that  grew  the  timber  say  they  did  it ; 
the  .hills  that  gave  the  metal  say  they  did  it. 

"The  truth  is  that  all  did  it — that  each  individual 
worker,  whether  he  toiled  with  his  hands  or  with  his 
brain,  was  dependent  upon  all  the  others  as  all  were 
dependent  upon  those  who  lived  and  labored  in  the 
ages  that  have  gone  before,  as  all  are  dependent  at  the 
last  upon  the  forces  of  nature  that  through  the  ages 
have  labored  for  all.  And  this  also  is  true,  sir, 
whether  you  like  to  admit  it  or  not;  just  as  we — 
you  and  I  and  Pete  Martin  and  the  others — all 
together  built  the  Mill,  so  we  all  together  built  it  for 

239 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

all.  You,  Adam  Ward,  can  no  more  keep  for  your 
self  alone  the  fruits  of  your  labor  than  you  alone  and 
single-handed  could  have  built  the  Mill." 

The  Interpreter  paused  as  if  for  an  answer. 

Adam  Ward  did  not  speak. 

A  flare  of  light  from  the  stacks  of  the  Mill,  where 
the  night  shift  was  sweating  at  its  work,  drew  then* 
eyes.  Through  the  darkness  came  the  steady  song 
of  industry — a  song  that  was  charged  with  the  life 
of  millions.  And  they  saw  the  lights  of  the  business 
district,  where  Jake  Vodell  was  preaching  to  a  throng 
of  idle  workmen  his  doctrine  of  class  hatred  and 
destruction. 

The  Interpreter's  manner  was  in  no  way  aggressive 
when  he  broke  the  silence.  There  was,  indeed,  in 
his  deep  voice  an  undertone  of  sorrow,  and  yet  he 
spoke  as  with  authority.  "You  were  driven  here 
to-night  by  your  fear,  Adam  Ward.  You  recognize 
the  menace  to  this  community  and  to  our  nation 
in  the  influence  and  teaching  of  men  like  Jake  Vodell. 
Most  of  all,  you  fear  for  yourself  and  your  material 
possessions.  And  you  have  reason  to  be  afraid  of 
this  danger  that  you  yourself  have  brought  upon 
Millsburgh." 

"What!"  cried  the  Mill  owner.  "You  say  that  I 
am  responsible? — that  I  brought  this  anarchist  agi 
tator  here?" 

The  Interpreter  answered,  solemnly,  "I  say  that 
but  for  you  and  such  men  as  you,  Adam  Ward,  Jake 
Vodell  could  never  gain  a  hearing  in  any  American 
city." 

Adam  Ward  laughed  harshly. 
240 


ADAM  WARD'S  WORK 


But  the  old  basket  maker  continued  as  if  he  had 
not  heard.  "Every  act  of  your  business  career,  sir, 
has  been  a  refusal  to  recognize  those  who  have 
worked  with  you.  Your  whole  life  has  been  an 
over  assertion  of  your  personal  independence  and  a 
denial  of  the  greatest  of  all  laws — the  law  of  depend 
ence,  which  is  the  vital  principle  of  life  itself.  And 
so  you  have,  through  these  years,  upheld  and  exem 
plified  to  the  working  people  the  very  selfishness  to 
which  Jake  Vodell  appeals  now  with  such  sad  effect 
iveness.  It  is  the  class  pride  and  intolerance  which 
you  have  fostered  in  yourself  and  family  that  have 
begotten  the  class  hatred  which  makes  VodelFs 
plans  against  our  government  a  dangerous  possi 
bility.  Your  fathers  fought  in  a  great  war  for  inde 
pendence,  Adam  Ward.  Your  son  must  now  fight 
for  a  recognition  of  that  dependence  without  which 
the  independence  won  by  your  father  will  surely 
perish  from  the  earth." 

At  the  mention  of  his  son,  the  Mill  owner  moved 
impatiently  and  spoke  with  bitter  resentment.  "A 
fine  mess  you  are  making  of  things  with  your 
'  dependence. ' ' 

"It  is  a  fine  mess  that  you  have  made  of  things, 
Adam  Ward,  with  your  '  independence, ' "  returned 
the  Interpreter,  sternly. 

"I  can  tell  you  one  thing,"  said  Adam.  "Your 
unions  will  never  straighten  anything  out  with  the 
help  of  Jake  Vodell  and  his  gang  of  murdering 
anarchists." 

"You  are  exactly  right,"  agreed  the  Interpreter. 
"  And  I  can  tell  you  a  thing  to  match  the  truth  of  your 

241 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

statement.  Your  combinations  of  employers  will 
never  straighten  anything  out  with  the  help  of  such 
men  as  Mclver  and  his  hired  gunmen  and  his  talk 
about  driving  men  to  work  at  the  point  of  the  bayo 
net.  But  Mclver  and  his  principles  are  not  en 
dorsed  by  our  American  employers,"  continued  the 
Interpreter,  "any  more  than  Jake  Vodell  and  his 
methods  are  endorsed  by  our  American  union  employ 
ees.  The  fact  is  that  the  great  body  of  loyal  Amer 
ican  employers  and  employees,  which  is,  indeed,  the 
body  of  our  nation  itself,  is  fast  coming  to  recognize 
the  truth  that  our  industries  must  somehow  be  saved 
from  the  destruction  that  is  threatened  by  both  the 
Mclvers  of  capital  and  the  Vodells  of  labor.  Our 
Mill,  Adam  Ward,  that  you  and  Pete  Martin  and  I 
built  together  and  that,  whether  you  admit  it  or 
not,  we  built  for  all  mankind,  our  Mill  must  be 
protected  against  both  employers  and  employees. 
It  must  be  protected,  not  because  the  ownership, 
under  our  laws,  happens  to  be  vested  in  you  as  an 
individual  citizen,  but  because  of  that  larger  owner 
ship  which,  under  the  universal  laws  of  humanity, 
is  vested  in  the  people  whose  lives  are  dependent 
upon  that  Mill  as  an  essential  industry.  The  Mill 
must  be  saved,  indeed,  for  the  very  people  who  would 
destroy  it." 

"Very  fine!"  sneered  Adam;  "and  perhaps  you 
will  tell  me  who  is  to  save  my  Mill  that  is  not  my  Mill 
for  the  very  people  who  own  it  and  who  would  de 
stroy  it?" 

The  voice  of  the  Interpreter  was  colored  with  the 
fire  of  prophecy  as  he  answered,  "In  the  name  of 

242 


ADAM   WARD'S  WORK 


humanity,  the  sons  of  the  men  who  built  the  Mill  will 
save  it  for  humanity.  Your  boy  John,  Adam  Ward, 
and  Pete  Martin's  boy  Charlie  represent  the  united 
armies  of  American  employers  and  employees  that 
stand  in  common  loyalty  against  the  forces  that  are, 
through  the  destruction  of  our  industries,  seeking  to 
bring  about  the  downfall  of  our  nation." 

Adam  Ward  laughed.  "  Tell  that  to  your  partner 
Billy  Rand  over  there;  he  will  hear  it  as  quick  as  the 
American  people  will." 

But  the  man  in  the  wheel  chair  was  not  disturbed 
by  Adam  Ward's  laughing. 

"The  great  war  taught  the  American  people  some 
mighty  lessons,  Adam  Ward,"  he  said.  "It  taught 
us  that  patriotism  is  not  of  one  class  or  rank,  but  is 
common  to  every  level  of  our  national  social  life.  It 
taught  us  that  heroism  is  the  birthright  of  both  office 
and  shop.  Most  of  all  did  the  war  teach  us  the 
lesson  of  comradeship — that  men  of  every  rank  and 
class  and  occupation  could  stand  together,  live 
together  and  die  together,  united  in  the  bonds  of  a 
common,  loyal  citizenship  for  a  common,  human 
cause.  And  out  of  that  war  and  its  lessons  our  own 
national  saviors  are  come.  The  loyal  patriot  em 
ployers  and  the  loyal  patriot  employees,  who  on  the 
fields  of  war  were  brother  members  of  that  great 
union  of  sacrifice  and  death,  will  together  free 
the  industries  of  their  own  country  from  the  two 
equally  menacing  terrors — imperialistic  capital  and 
imperialistic  labor. 

"The  comradeship  of  your  son  with  the  workman 
Charlie  Martin,  the  stand  that  John  has  taken 

243 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

against  Mclver,  and  the  refusal  of  the  Mill  workers' 
union  to  accept  VodelPs  leadership — is  the  answer 
to  your  question,  'Who  is  to  save  the  Mill?" 

"Rot!"  exclaimed  Adam  Ward.  "You  talk  as 
though  every  man  who  went  to  that  war  was  inspired 
by  the  highest  motives.  They  were  not  all  heroes  by 
a  good  deal." 

"True,"  returned  the  Interpreter,  "they  were  not 
all  heroes.  But  there  was  the  leaven  that  leavened 
the  lump,  and  so  the  army  itself  was  heroic." 

"What  about  the  moral  degeneracy  and  the  crime 
wave  that  have  followed  the  return  of  your  heroic 
army?"  demanded  Adam. 

"True,  again,"  returned  the  Interpreter;  "it  is 
inevitable  that  men  whose  inherited  instincts  and 
tendencies  are  toward  crime  should  acquire  in  the 
school  of  war  a  bolder  spirit — a  more  reckless  daring 
in  their  criminal  living.  But  again  there  is  the  saving 
leaven  that  leavens  the  lump.  If  the  war  training 
makes  criminals  more  bold,  it  as  surely  makes  the 
leaven  of  nobility  more  powerful.  One  splendid 
example  of  noble  heroism  is  ten  thousand  times  more 
potent  in  the  world  than  a  thousand  revolting  deeds 
of  crime.  No — no,  Adam  Ward,  the  world  will  not 
forget  the  lessons  it  learned  over  there.  The  torch  of 
Flanders  fields  has  not  fallen.  The  world  will  carry 
on." 

There  was  such  a  quality  of  reverent  conviction 
in  the  concluding  words  of  the  man  in  the  wheel 
chair  that  Adam  Ward  was  silenced. 

For  some  time  they  sat,  looking  into  the  night 
where  the  huge  bulk  of  the  Mill  with  its  towering 

244 


ADAM  WARD'S  WORK 


stacks  and  overhanging  clouds  seemed  to  dominate 
not  only  the  neighboring  shops  and  factories  and  the 
immediate  Flats,  but  in  some  mysterious  way  to 
extend  itself  over  the  business  district  and  the  homes 
of  the  city,  and,  like  a  ruling  spirit,  to  pervade  the 
entire  valley,  even  unto  the  distant  line  of  hills. 

When  the  old  basket  maker  spoke  again,  that  note 
of  strange  and  solemn  authority  was  hi  his  voice. 
" Listen,  Adam  Ward!  In  the  ideals,  the  heroism, 
the  suffering,  the  sacrifice  of  the  war — in  shell  hole 
and  trench  and  bloody  No  Man's  Land,  the  sons  of 
men  have  found  again  the  God  that  you  and  men 
like  you  had  banished  from  the  Mill.  Your  boy 
and  Pete  Martin's  boy,  with  more  thousands  of  their 
comrades  than  men  of  your  mind  realize,  have  come 
back  from  the  war  fields  of  France  to  enthrone  God 
once  more  in  the  industrial  world.  And  it  shall  come 
that  every  forge  and  furnace  and  anvil  and  machine 
shall  be  an  organ  to  His  praise — that  every  suit  of 
overalls  shall  be  a  priestly  robe  of  ministering  service. 
And  this  God  that  you  banished  from  the  Mill  and 
that  is  to  be  by  your  son  restored  to  His  throne 
and  served  by  a  priesthood  of  united  employers  and 
employees,  shall  bear  a  new  name,  Adam  Ward,  and 
that  name  shall  be  WORK." 

Awed  by  the  strange  majesty  of  the  Interpreter's 
voice,  Adam  Ward  could  only  whisper  fearfully, 
"Work— the  name  of  God  shall  be  Work!" 

"Ay,  Adam  Ward,  WORK— and  why  not?  Does 
not  the  work  of  the  world  express  the  ideals,  the 
purpose,  the  needs,  the  life,  the  oneness  of  the  world's 
humanity,  even  as  a  flower  expresses  the  plant  that 

245 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

puts  it  forth?  And  is  not  God  the  ultimate  flowering 
of  the  human  plant?  " 

The  Mill  owner  spoke  with  timid  hesitation, 
"Could  I — do  you  think — could  I,  perhaps,  help  to, 
as  you  say,  put  God  back  into  the  Mill?  " 

"Your  part  hi  the  building  of  the  Mill  is  finished, 
Adam  Ward,"  came  the  solemn  answer.  "  You  have 
made  many  contracts  with  men,  sir;  you  should  now 
make  a  contract  with  your  God." 

The  owner  of  the  new  process  sprang  to  his  feet 
with  an  exclamation  of  fear.  As  one  who  sees  a 
thing  of  horror  in  the  dark,  he  drew  back,  trembling. 

That  deep,  inexorable  voice  of  sorrowful  authority 
went  on,  "Make  a  contract  with  your  God,  Adam 
Ward;  make  a  contract  with  your  God." 

With  a  wild  cry  of  terror  Adam  Ward  fled  into 
the  night. 

The  Interpreter  hi  his  wheel  chair  looked  up  at 
the  stars. 

It  seems  scarcely  possible  that  the  old  basket 
maker  could  have  foreseen  the  tragic  effect  of  his 
words — and  yet 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  PEOPLE'S  AMERICA 

A  his  evening  meetings  on  the  street,  Jake 
Vodell  with  stirring  oratory  kindled  the  fire 
of  his  cause.  In  the  councils  of  the  unions, 
through  individuals  and  groups,  with  clever  argu 
ments  and  inflaming  literature,  he  sought  recruits. 
With  stinging  sarcasm  and  withering  scorn  he 
taunted  the  laboring  people — told  them  they  were 
fools  and  cowards  to  submit  to  the  degrading 
slavery  of  their  capitalist  owners.  With  biting 
invective  and  blistering  epithet  he  pictured  their 
employer  enemies  as  the  brutal  and  ruthless  de 
stroyers  of  their  homes.  With  thrilling  eloquence 
he  fanned  the  flames  of  class  hatred,  inspired  the 
loyalty  of  his  followers  to  himself  and  held  out  to 
them  golden  promises  of  reward  if  they  would  prove 
themselves  men  and  take  that  which  belonged  to 
them. 

But  the  Mill  workers'  union,  as  an  organization, 
was  steadfast  in  its  refusal  to  be  dominated  by  this 
agitator  who  was  so  clearly  antagonistic  to  every 
principle  of  American  citizenship.  Jake  Vodell 
could  neither  lead  nor  drive  them  into  a  strike  that 
was  so  evidently  called  in  the  interests  of  his  cause. 
And  more  and  more  the  agitator  was  compelled  to 
recognize  the  powerful  influence  of  the  Interpreter. 
It  was  not  long  before  he  went  to  the  hut  on  the  cliff 

247 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

with  a  positive  demand  for  the  old  basket  maker's 
open  support. 

"I  do  not  know  why  it  is,"  he  said,  "that  a  poor 
old  cripple  like  you  should  have  such  power  among 
men,  but  I  know  it  is  so.  You  shall  tell  this 
Captain  Charlie  and  his  crowd  of  fools  that  they 
must  help  me  to  win  for  the  laboring  people  their 
freedom.  You  shall,  for  me,  enlist  these  Mill  men  in 
the  cause." 

The  Interpreter  asked,  gravely;  "And  when  you 
have  accomplished  this  that  you  call  freedom — when 
you  have  gained  this  equality  that  you  talk  about — 
how  will  your  brotherhood  be  governed?" 

Jake  Vodell  scowled  as  he  gazed  at  the  man  in  the 
wheel  chair  with  quick  suspicion.  "Governed?" 

"Yes,"  returned  the  Interpreter.  "Without 
organization  of  some  sort  nothing  can  be  done.  No 
industries  can  be  carried  on  without  the  con 
certed  effort  which  is  organization.  Without  the 
industry  that  is  necessary  to  human  life  the  free 
people  you  picture  cannot  exist.  Without  govern 
ment — which  means  law  and  the  enforcement  of 
law — organization  of  any  kind  is  impossible." 

"There  will  have  to  be  organization,  certainly," 
answered  Vodell. 

"Then,  there  will  be  leaders,  directors,  managers 
with  authority  to  whom  the  people  must  surrender 
themselves  as  individuals,"  said  the  Interpreter, 
quietly.  "An  organization  without  leadership  is 
impossible." 

The  agitator's  voice  was  triumphant,  as  he  said, 
"Certainly  there  will  be  leaders.  And  their  au- 

248 


THE  PEOPLE'S  AMERICA 


thority  will  be  unquestioned.  And  these  leaders  will 
be  those  who  have  led  the  people  out  of  the  miser 
able  bondage  of  their  present  condition." 

The  Interpreter's  voice  had  a  new  note  in  it  now,  as 
he  said,  "In  other  words,  sir,  what  you  propose  is 
simply  to  substitute  yourself  for  Mclver.  You 
propose  to  the  people  that  they  overthrow  their 
present  leaders  in  the  industries  of  their  nation  in 
order  that  you  and  your  fellow  agitators  may  become 
their  masters.  You  demand  that  the  citizens  of 
America  abolish  their  national  government  and  in 
its  place  accept  you  and  your  fellows  as  their  rulers? 
What  assurance  can  you  give  the  people,  sir,  that 
under  your  rule  they  will  have  more  freedom  for 
self-government,  more  opportunities  for  self-advance 
ment  and  prosperity  and  happiness  than  they  have 
at  present?" 

/'Assurance?"  muttered  the  other,  startled  by  the 
^Interpreter's  manner. 

The  old  basket  maker  continued,  "Are  you  and 
your  self-constituted  leaders  of  the  American  work 
ing  people,  gods?  Are  you  not  as  human  as  any 
Mclver  or  Adam  Ward  of  the  very  class  you  con 
demn?  Would  you  not  be  subject  to  the  same 
temptations  of  power — the  same  human  passions? 
Would  you  not,  given  the  same  opportunity,  be  all 
that  you  say  they  are — or  worse?  " 

Jake  Vodell's  countenance  was  black  with  rage. 
He  started  to  rise,  but  a  movement  of  Billy  Rand 
made  him  hesitate.  His  voice  was  harsh  with 
menacing  passion.  "And  you  call  yourself  a  friend 
of  the  laboring  class?" 

249 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

"It  is  because  I  am  a  friend  of  my  fellow  American 
citizens  that  I  ask  you  what  freedom  your  brother 
hood  can  insure  to  us  that  we  have  not  now,"  the 
Interpreter  answered,  solemnly.  "Look  there,  sir." 
He  swept,  in  a  gesture,  the  scene  that  lay  within  view 
of  his  balcony  porch.  "That  is  America — my 
America — the  America  of  the  people.  From  the 
wretched  hovels  of  the  incompetent  and  unfortunate 
Sam  Whaleys  in  the  Flats  down  there  to  Adam 
Ward's  castle  on  the  hill  yonder,  it  is  our  America. 
From  the  happy  little  home  of  that  sterling  work 
man,  Peter  Martin,  to  the  homes  of  the  business 
workers  on  the  hillside  over  there,  it  is  ours.  .  From 
the  business  district  to  the  beautiful  farms  across 
the  river,  it  belongs  to  us  all.  And  the  Mill  there — 
representing  as  it  does  the  industries  of  our  nation 
and  standing  for  the  very  life  of  our  people — is  our 
Mill.  The  troubles  that  disturb  us — the  problems 
of  injustice — the  wrongs  of  selfishness  that  arise 
through  such  employers  as  Mclver  and  such  employ 
ees  as  Sam  Whaley,  are  our  troubles,  and  we 
will  settle  our  own  difficulties  in  our  own  way  as 
loyal  American  citizens." 

The  self-appointed  apostle  of  the  new  freedom  had 
by  this  time  regained  his  self-control.  His  only 
answer  to  the  Interpreter  was  a  shrug  of  his  thick 
shoulders  and  a  flash  of  white  teeth  in  his  black 
beard. 

The  old  basket  maker  with  his  eyes  still  on  the 
scene  that  lay  before  them  continued.  "Because 
I  love  my  countrymen,  sir,  I  protest  the  destructive 
teachings  of  your  brotherhood.  Your  ambitious 

250 


THE  PEOPLE'S  AMERICA 


schemes  would  plunge  my  country  into  a  bloody 
revolution  the  horrors  of  which  defy  the  imagina 
tion.  America  will  find  a  better  way.  The  loyal 
American  citizens  who  labor  in  our  industries  and 
the  equally  loyal  American  operators  of  these  indus 
tries  will  never  consent  to  the  ruthless  murder  by 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  our  best  brains  and  our 
best  manhood  in  support  of  your  visionary  theories. 
My  countrymen  will  never  permit  the  unholy 
slaughter  of  innocent  women  and  children,  that 
would  result  from  your  efforts  to  overthrow  our 
government  and  establish  a  wholly  impossible 
Utopia  upon  the  basis  of  an  equality  that  is  contrary 
to  every  law  of  life.  You  preach  freedom  to  the 
working  people  in  order  to  rob  them  of  the  freedom 
they  already  have.  With  visions  of  impossible 
wealth  and  luxurious  idleness  you  blind  them  to  the 
greater  happiness  that  is  within  reach  of  their 
industry.  In  the  name  of  an  equality,  the  possi 
bility  of  which  your  own  assumed  leadership  denies, 
you  incite  a  class  hatred  and  breed  an  intolerance 
and  envy  that  destroy  the  good  feeling  of  com 
radeship  and  break  down  the  noble  spirit  of  that 
actual  equality  which  we  already  have  and  which 
is  our  only  salvation." 

"Equality!"  sneered  Jake  Vodell.  "You  have 
a  fine  equality  in  this  America  of  capitalist-ridden 
fools  who  are  too  cowardly  to  say  that  their  souls 
are  their  own.  It  is  the  equality  of  Adam  Ward 
and  Sam  Whaley,  I  suppose." 

"Sam  Whaley  is  a  product  of  your  teaching,  sir," 
the  Interpreter  answered.  >  "The  equality  of  whiok 

251 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

I  speak  is  that  of  Adam  Ward  and  Peter  Martin  as 
it  is  evidenced  in  the  building  up  of  the  Mill.  It  is 
the  equality  that  is  in  the  comradeship  of  their  sons, 
John  and  Charlie,  who  will  protect  and  carry  on  the 
work  of  then:  fathers.  It  is  the  equality  of  a  com 
mon  citizenship — of  mutual  dependence  of  employer 
and  employee  upon  the  industries,  that  alone  can 
save  our  people  from  want  and  starvation  and  guard 
our  nation  from  the  horrors  you  would  bring  upon 
it." 

The  man  laughed.  "Suppose  you  sing  that 
pretty  song  to  Mclver,  heh?  What  do  you  think  he 
would  say?" 

"He  would  laugh,  as  you  are  laughing,"  returned 
the  Interpreter,  sadly. 

"Tell  it  to  Adam  Ward  then,"  jeered  the  other. 
"He  will  recognize  his  equality  with  Peter  Martin 
when  you  explain  it,  heh?" 

"Adam  Ward  is  already  paying  a  terrible  price 
for  denying  it,"  the  Interpreter  answered. 

Again  Jake  Vodell  laughed  with  sneering  triumph. 
"Well,  then  I  guess  you  will  have  to  preach  your 
equality  to  the  deaf  and  dumb  man  there.  Maybe 
you  can  make  him  understand  it.  The  old  basket 
maker  without  any  legs  and  the  big  husky  who  can 
neither  hear  nor  talk — they  are  equals,  I  suppose, 
heh?" 

"Billy  Rand  and  I  perfectly  illustrate  the  equality 
of  dependence,  sir,"  returned  the  Interpreter.  "Billy 
is  as  much  my  superior  physically  as  I  am  his  superior 
mentally.  Without  my  thinking  and  planning  he 
would  be  as  helpless  as  I  would  be  without  his  good 

252 


THE  PEOPLE'S  AMERICA 


bodily  strength.  We  are  each  equally  dependent 
upon  the  other,  and  from  that  mutual  dependence 
comes  our  comradeship  in  the  industry  which  alone 
secures  for  us  the  necessities  of  life.  I  could  not 
make  baskets  without  Billy's  labor — Billy  could 
not  make  baskets  without  my  planning  and  direct 
ing.  And  yet,  sir,  you  and  Mclver  would  set  us  to 
fighting  each  other.  You  would  have  Billy  deny 
his  dependence  upon  me  and  use  his  strength  to 
destroy  me,  thus  depriving  himself  of  the  help  he 
must  have  if  he  would  live.  Mclver  would  have 
me  deny  my  dependence  upon  Billy  and  by  antago 
nizing  him  with  my  assumed  superiority  turn  his 
strength  to  the  destruction  of  our  comradeship  by 
which  I  also  live.  Your  teaching  of  class  loyalty 
and  class  hatred  applied  to  Billy  and  me  would 
result  in  the  rum  of  our  basket  making  and  in  our 
consequent  starvation." 

Again  the  Interpreter,  from  his  wheel  chair, 
pointed  with  outstretched  arm  to  the  scene  that  lay 
with  all  its  varied  grades  of  life — social  levels  and 
individual  interests — before  them.  "Look,"  he  said, 
"to  the  inequality  that  is  there — inequalities  that 
are  as  great  as  the  difference  between  Billy  Rand 
and  myself.  And  yet,  every  individual  life  is 
dependent  upon  all  the  other  individual  lives.  The 
Mill  yonder  is  the  basket  making  of  the  people.  All 
alike  must  look  to  it  for  life  itself.  The  industries, 
without  which  the  people  cannot  exist,  can  be  car 
ried  on  only  by  the  comradeship  of  those  who  labor 
with  their  hands  and  those  who  work  with  their 
brains.  In  the  common  dependence  all  are  equal. 

253 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

The  only  equality  that  your  leadership,  with  its 
progress  of  destruction,  can  insure  to  American 
employers  and  employees  is  an  equality  of  inde 
scribable  suffering  and  death." 

The  old  basket  maker  paused  a  moment  before  he 
added,  solemnly,  "I  wonder  that  you  dare  assume 
the  responsibility  for  such  a  catastrophe.  Have 
you  no  God,  sir,  to  whom  you  must  eventually 
account?" 

The  man's  teeth  gleamed  in  a  grin  of  malicious  sar 
casm.  "I  should  know  that  you  believed  in  God. 
Bah!  An  old  woman  myth  to  scare  fools  and 
children.  I  suppose  you  believe  in  miracles  also?" 

"I  believe  in  the  miracle  of  life,"  the  Interpreter 
answered;  "and  hi  the  great  laws  of  life — the  law  of 
inequality  and  dependence,  that  in  its  operation 
insures  the  oneness  of  all  things." 

The  agitator  rose  to  his  feet,  and  with  a  shrug  of 
contempt,  said,  "Very  pretty,  Mr.  Interpreter, 
very  pretty.  You  watch  now  from  your  hut  here 
and  you  shall  see  what  men  who  are  not  crippled 
old  basket  makers  will  do  with  that  little  bit  of  your 
America  out  there.  It  is  I  who  will  teach  Peter 
Martin  and  his  comrades  in  the  Mill  how  to  deal 
with  your  friend  Adam  Ward  and  his  class." 

"You  are  too  late,  sir,"  said  the  Interpreter,  as  the 
man  moved  toward  the  door. 

Jake  Vodell  turned.  "How,  too  late?"  Then 
as  he  saw  Billy  Rand  rising  to  his  feet,  his  hand 
went  quickly  inside  his  vest. 

The  old  basket  maker  smiled  as  he  once  more  held 
out  a  restraining  hand  toward  his  companion.  "I 

254 


THE  PEOPLE'S  AMERICA 


do  not  mean  anything  like  that,  sir.  I  told  you 
some  tune  ago  that  you  were  defeated  in  your 
Millsburgh  campaign  by  Adam  Ward's  retirement 
from  the  Mill.  You  are  too  late  because  you  are 
forced  now  to  deal,  not  with  Adam  Ward  and 
Peter  Martin,  but  with  their  sons." 

"Oh,  ho!  and  what  you  should  say  also,  is  that 
I  am  really  forced  to  deal  with  an  old  basket  maker 
who  has  no  legs,  heh?  Well,  we  shall  see  about 
that,  too,  Mr.  Interpreter,  when  the  time  comes — we 
shall  see." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

PETER  MARTIN'S  PROBLEM 

IT  was  not  long  until  the  idle  workmen  began  to 
feel  the  want  of  their  pay  envelopes.  The 
grocers  and  butchers  were  as  dependent  upon 
those  pay  envelopes  as  were  the  workmen  themselves. 

The  winter  was  coming  on.  There  was  a  chill  in 
the  air.  In  the  homes  of  the  strikers  the  mothers 
and  their  little  ones  needed  not  only  food  but  fuel 
and  clothing  as  well.  The  crowds  at  the  evening 
street  meetings  became  more  ominous.  Through 
the  long,  idle  days  grim,  sullen-faced  men  walked 
the  streets  or  stood  in  groups  on  the  corners  watch 
ing  then*  fellow  citizens  and  muttering  in  low, 
guarded  tones.  Members  of  the  Mill  workers' 
union  were  openly  branded  as  cowards  and  traitors 
to  then*  class.  The  suffering  among  the  women 
and  children  became  acute. 

But  Jake  Vodell  was  a  master  who  demanded  of 
his  disciples  most  heroic  loyalty,  without  a  thought 
of  the  cost — to  them. 

Mclver  put  an  armed  guard  about  his  factory  and 
boasted  that  he  could  live  without  work.  The 
strikers,  he  declared,  could  either  starve  them 
selves  and  their  families  or  accept  his  terms. 

The  agitator  was  not  slow  in  making  capital  of 
Mclver's  statements. 

The  factory  owner  depended  upon  the  suffering 

256 


PETER  MARTIN'S  PROBLEM 

of  the  women  and  children  to  force  the  workmen 
to  yield  to  him.  Jake  Vodell,  the  self-appointed 
savior  of  the  laboring  people,  depended  upon  the 
suffering  of  women  and  children  to  drive  his  fol 
lowers  to  the  desperate  measures  that  would  further 
his  peculiar  and  personal  interests. 

Through  all  this,  the  Mill  workers'  union  still 
refused  to  accept  the  leadership  of  this  man  whose 
every  interest  was  anti- American  and  foreign  to  the 
principles  of  the  loyal  citizen  workman.  But  the 
fire  of  Jake  Vodell's  oratory  and  argument  was  not 
without  kindling  power,  even  among  John  Ward's 
employees.  As  the  feeling  on  both  sides  of  the  con 
troversy  grew  more  bitter  and  intolerant,  the  Mill 
men  felt  with  increasing  force  the  pull  of  their  class. 
The  taunts  and  jeers  of  the  striking  workers  were 
felt.  The  cries  of  "traitor"  hurt.  The  suffering 
of  the  innocent  members  of  the  strikers'  families 
appealed  strongly  to  their  sympathies. 

When  Mclver's  imperialistic  declaration  was 
known,  the  number  who  were  hi  favor  of  supporting 
Jake  Vodell's  campaign  increased  measurably. 

Nearly  every  day  now  at  some  hour  of  the  even 
ing  or  night,  Pete  and  Captain  Charlie,  with  others 
from  among  their  union  comrades,  might  have 
been  found  in  the  hut  on  the  cliff  in  earnest  talk 
with  the  man  in  the  wheel  chair.  The  active  head 
of  the  union  was  Captain  Charlie,  as  his  father 
had  been  before  him,  but  it  was  no  secret  that  the 
guiding  counsel  that  held  the  men  of  the  Mill  steady 
came  from  the  old  basket  maker. 

For  John  Ward  the  days  were  increasingly  hard. 
257 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

He  could  not  but  sense  the  feeling  of  the  men.  He 
knew  that  if  Jake  Vodell  could  win  them,  such 
disaster  as  the  people  of  Millsburgh  had  never 
seen  would  result.  The  interest  and  sympathy  of 
Helen,  the  comradeship  of  Captain  Charlie,  and  the 
strength  of  the  Interpreter  gave  him  courage  and 
hope.  But  there  was  nothing  that  he  could  do. 
He  felt  as  he  had  felt  sometimes  in  France  when 
he  was  called  upon  to  stand  and  wait.  It  was  a 
relief  to  help  Mary  as  he  could  in  her  work  among 
the  sufferers.  But  even  this  activity  of  mercy  was 
turned  against  him  by  both  Mclver  and  Vodell. 
The  factory  man  blamed  him  for  prolonging  the 
strike  and  thus  working  hi  jury  to  the  general  busi 
ness  interests  of  Millsburgh.  The  strike  leader 
charged  him  with  seeking  to  win  the  favor  of  the 
working  class  in  order  to  influence  his  own  employees 
against,  what  he  called  the  fight  for  their  industrial 
freedom. 

The  situation  was  rapidly  approaching  a  crisis 
when  Peter  Martin  and  Captain  Charlie,  return 
ing  home  from  a  meeting  of  their  union  late  one 
evening,  found  the  door  of  the  house  locked. 

The  way  the  two  men  stood  facing  each  other 
without  a  word  revealed  the  tension  of  their  nerves. 
Captain  Charlie's  hand  shook  so  that  his  key  rattled 
against  the  lock.  But  when  they  were  inside  and 
had  switched  on  the  light,  a  note  which  Mary  had 
left  on  the  table  for  them  explained. 

The  young  woman  had  gone  to  the  Flats  in  answer 
to  a  call  for  help.  John  was  with  her.  t  She  had 

258 


PETER  MARTIN'S  PROBLEM 

left  the  note  so  that  her  father  and  brother  would 
not  be  alarmed  at  her  absence  in  case  they  returned 
home  before  her. 

In  then*  relief,  the  two  men  laughed.  They  were 
a  little  ashamed  of  their  unspoken  fears. 

"We  might  have  known,"  said  Pete,  and  with 
the  words  seemed  to  dismiss  the  incident  from  his 
mind. 

But  Captain  Charlie  did  not  recover  so  easily. 
While  his  father  found  the  evening  paper  and, 
settling  himself  in  an  easy-chair  by  the  table,  cleaned 
his  glasses  and  filled  and  lighted  his  pipe,  the  younger 
man  went  restlessly  from  room  to  room,  turning 
on  the  lights,  turning  them  off  again — all  apparently 
for  no  reason  whatever.  He  finished  his  inspec 
tion  by  returning  to  the  tab  3  and  again  picking  up 
Mary's  note. 

When  he  had  reread  the  message  he  said,  slowly, 
"I  thought  John  expected  to  be  at  the  office 
to-night." 

Something  in  his  son's  voice  caused  the  old 
workman  to  look  at  him  steadily,  as  he  answered, 
"John  probably  came  by  on  his  way  to  the  Mill 
and  dropped  in  for  a  few  minutes." 

"I  suppose  so,"  returned  Charlie.  Then, " Father, 
do  you  think  it  wise  for  sister  to  be  so  much  with 
John?" 

The  old  workman  laid  aside  his  paper.  "Why,  I 
don't  know — I  hadn't  thought  much  about  it,  son. 
It  seems  natural  enough,  considering  the  way  you 
children  was  all  raised  together  when  you  was 
youngsters." 

259 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

"It's  natural  enough  all  right,"  returned  Captain 
Charlie,  and,  with  a  bitterness  that  was  very  unlike 
his  usual  self,  he  added,  "That's.) the  hell  of  it — 
it's  too  natural — too  human — too  right  for  this  day 
and  age." 

Pete  Martin's  mind  worked  rather  slowly  but  he 
was  fully  aroused  now — Charlie's  meaning  was 
clear.  "What  makes  you  think  that  Mary  and 
John  are  thinking  of  each  other  in  that  way, 
son?" 

"How  could  they  help  it?"  returned  Captain 
Charlie.  "Sister  is  exactly  the  kind  of  woman  that 
John  would  choose  for  a  wife.  Don't  I  know  what 
he  thinks  of  the  light-headed  nonentities  in  the 
set  that  he  is  supposed  to  belong  to?  Hasn't  he 
demonstrated  his  ideas  of  class  distinctions?  It 
would  never  occur  to  hin.  that  there  was  any  reason 
why  John  Ward  should  not  love  Mary  Martin. 
As  for  sister — when  you  think  of  the  whole  story  of 
their  childhood  together,  of  how  John  and  I  were  all 
through  the  war,  of  how  he  has  been  in  the  Mill 
since  we  came  home,  of  their  seeing  each  other  here 
at  the  house  so  much,  of  the  way  he  has  been  help 
ing  her  with  her  work  among  the  poor  in  the  Flats — 
well,  how  could  any  woman  like  sister  help  loving 
him?" 

While  the  older  man  was  considering  his  son's 
presentation  of  the  case,  Captain  Charlie  added, 
with  characteristic  loyalty,  "God  may  have  made 
finer  men  than  John  Ward,  but  if  He  did  they  don't 
live  around  Millsburgh." 

"Well,  then,  son,"  said  Peter  Martin,  with  his 
260 


PETER  MARTIN'S  PROBLEM 

slow   smile,    "what   about   it?    Suppose   they  are 
thinking  of  each  other  as  you  say?  " 

Captain  Charlie  did  not  answer  for  a  long  minute. 
And  the  father,  watching,  saw  hi  that  strong  young 
face  the  shadow  of  a  hurt  which  the  soldier  workman 
could  not  hide. 

"It  is  all  so  hopeless,"  said  Charlie,  at  last,  in  a 
tone  that  told  more  clearly  than  words  could  have 
done  his  own  hopelessness.  "I — it  don't  seem 
right  for  Mary  to  have  to  bear  it,  too." 

"I'm  sorry,  son,"  was  all  that  the  old  workman 
said,  but  Captain  Charlie  knew  that  his  father 
understood. 

After  that  they  did  not  speak  until  they  heard  an 
automobile  stop  in  front  of  the  house. 

"That  must  be  Mary  now,"  said  Pete,  looking  at 
his  watch.  "They  have  never  been  so  late  before." 

They  heard  her  step  on  the  porch.  The  sound  of 
the  automobile  died  away  in  the  distance. 

When  Mary  came  hi  and  they  saw  her  face,  they 
knew  that  Charlie  was  right.  She  tried  to  return 
their  greetings  hi  her  usual  manner  but  failed  piti 
fully  and  hurried  on  to  her  room. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  without  a  word. 

Presently  Mary  returned  and  told  them  a  part  of 
her  evening's  experience.  Soon  after  her  father  and 
brother  had  left  the  house  for  the  meeting  of  their 
union,  a  boy  from  the  Flats  came  with  the  word 
that  the  wife  of  one  of  Jake  Vodell's  followers  was 
very  ill.  Mary,  knowing  the  desperate  need  of  the 
case  but  fearing  to  be  alone  in  that  neighborhood 
at  night,  had  telephoned  John  at  the  Mill  and  he  had 

261 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

taken  her  in  his  car  to  the  place.  The  woman,  in 
the  agonies  of  childbirth,  was  alone  with  her  three 
little  girls.  The  husband  and  father  was  some 
where  helping  Jake  Vodell  hi  the  agitator's  noble 
effort  to  bring  happiness  to  the  laboring  class.  .While 
Mary  was  doing  what  she  could  in  the  wretched 
home,  John  went  for  a  doctor,  and  to  bring  fuel  and 
blankets  and  food  and  other  things  that  were  needed. 
But,  in  spite  of  then"  efforts,  the  fighting  methods  of 
Mclver  and  Vodell  scored  another  point,  that  they 
each  might  claim  with  equal  reason  as  in  his  favor — 
to  God  knows  what  end. 

"I  can't  understand  why  you  Mill  men  let  them  go 
on,"  Mary  cried,  with  a  sudden  outburst  of  feeling, 
as  she  finished  her  story.  "You  could  fight  for  the 
women  and  children  during  the  war.  Whenever 
there  is  a  shipwreck  the  papers  are  always  full  of 
the  heroism  of  the  men  who  cry  'women  and  children 
first!'  Why  can't  some  one  think  of  the  women 
and  children  in  these  strikes?  They  are  just  as 
innocent  as  the  women  and  children  of  Belgium. 
Why  don't  you  talk  on  the  streets  and  hold  mass 
meetings  and  drive  Jake  Vodell  and  that  beast 
Mclver  out  of  the  country?" 

"Jake  Vodell  and  Mclver  are  both  hoping  that 
some  one  will  do  just  that,  Mary,"  returned  Captain 
Charlie.  "They  would  like  nothing  better  than  for 
some  one  to  start  a  riot.  You  see,  dear,  an  open 
clash  would  result  in  bloodshed — the  troops  would 
be  called  in  by  Mclver,  which  is  exactly  what  he 
wants.  .-  Vodell  would  provoke  an  attack  on  the 
soldiers,  some  one  would  be  killed,  and  we  would 

262 


PETER  MARTIN'S  PROBLEM 

have  exactly  the  sort  of  war  against  the  government 
that  he  and  his  brotherhood  are  working  for." 

The  old  workman  spoke.  "  Charlie  is  right, 
daughter;  these  troubles  will  never  be  settled  by 
Mclver's  way  nor  Vodell's  way.  They  will  be 
settled  by  the  employers  like  John  getting  together 
and  driving  the  Mclvers  out  of  business — and  the 
employees  like  Charlie  here  and  a  lot  of  the  men  in 
our  union  getting  together  with  John  and  his  crowd 
and  sending  the  Jake  Vodells  back  to  whatever 
country  they  came  from." 

When  her  father  spoke  John's  name,  the  young 
woman's  face  colored  with  a  quick  blush.  The  next 
moment,  unable  to  control  her  overwrought  emo 
tions,  she  burst  into  tears  and  started  to  leave  the 
room.  But  at  the  door  Captain  Charlie  caught  her 
in  his  arms  and  held  her  close  until  the  first  violence  of 
her  grief  was  over. 

When  she  had  a  little  of  her  usual  calmness,  her 
brother  whispered,  "I  know  all  about  it,  dear." 

She  raised  her  head  from  his  shoulder  and  looked 
at  him  with  tearful  doubt.  "You  know  about — 
about  John?"  she  said,  wonderingly. 

"Yes,"  he  whispered,  with  an  encouraging  smile, 
"I  know — father  and  I  were  talking  about  it  before 
you  came  home.  I  am  going  to  leave  you  with  him 
now.  You  must  tell  father,  you  know.  Good 
night,  dear — good-night,  father." 

Slowly  Mary  turned  back  into  the  room.  The 
old  workman,  sitting  there  in  his  big  chair,  held  out 
his  arms.  With  a  little  cry  she  ran  to  him  as  she 
had  gone  to  him  all  the  years  of  her  life. 

263 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

When  she  had  told  him  all — how  John  that  very 
evening  on  their  way  home  from  the  Flats  had 
asked  her  to  be  his  wife — and  how  she,  in  spite 
of  her  love  for  him,  had  forced  herself  to  answer, 
"  No,  "  Pete  Martin  sat  with  his  head  bowed  as  one 
deep  hi  thought. 

Mary,  knowing  her  father's  slow  way,  waited. 

When  the  old  workman  spoke  at  last  it  was  almost 
as  though,  unconscious  of  his  daughter's  presence, 
he  talked  to  himself.  "Your  mother  and  I  used  to 
think  in  the  old  days  when  you  children  were  grow 
ing  up  together  that  sometime  perhaps  the  two 
families  would  be  united.  But  when  we  watched 
Adam  getting  rich  and  saw  what  his  money  was 
doing  to  him  and  to  his  home,  we  got  to  be  rather 
glad  that  you  children  were  separated.  We  were  so 
happy  ourselves  in  our  own  little  home  here  that  we 
envied  no  man.  We  did  not  want  wealth  even  for 
you  and  Charlie  when  we  saw  all  that  went  with 
it.  We  did  not  dream  that  Adam's  success  could 
ever  stand  hi  the  way  of  our  children's  happiness 
like  this.  But  I  guess  that  is  the  way  it  is,  daughter. 
I  remember  the  Interpreter's  saying  once  that  no 
man  had  a  right  to  make  even  himself  miserable 
because  no  man  could  be  miserable  alone." 

The  old  workman's  voice  grew  still  more  reflect 
ive.  "It  was  the  new  process  that  made  Adam 
rich.  He  was  no  better  man  at  the  bench  than  I. 
I  never  considered  him  as  my  superior.  He  hap 
pened  to  be  born  with  a  different  kind  of  a  brain, 
that  is  all.  And  he  thought  more  of  money,  while 
I  cared  more  for  other  things.  But  there  is  a  good 

264 


PETER  MARTIN'S  PROBLEM 

reason  why  his  money  should  not  be  permitted  to 
stand  between  his  children  and  my  children.  There 
is  a  lot  of  truth,  after  all,  in  Jake  Vodell's  talk 
about  the  rights  of  men  who  work  with  their  hands. 
The  law  upholds  Adam  Ward  in  his  possessions,  I 
know.  And  it  would  uphold  him  just  the  same  if 
my  children  were  starving.  But  the  law  don't 
make  it  right.  There  should  be  some  way  to  make 
a  man  do  what  is  right — law  or  no  law.  You  and 
John- 

" Father!"  cried  Mary,  alarmed  at  his  words. 
"Surely  you  are  not  going  to  hold  with  Jake  Vodell 
about  such  things.  What  do  you  mean  about 
making  a  man  do  what  is  right — law  or  no  law?" 

"There,  there,  daughter,"  said  the  old  workman, 
smiling.  "I  was  just  thinking  out  loud,  I  guess. 
It  will  be  all  right  for  you  and  John.  Run  along  to 
bed  now,  and  don't  let  a  worry  come,  even  into  your 
dreams." 

"I  would  rather  give  John  up  a  thousand  times 
than  have  you  like  Jake  Vodell,"  she  said.  "You 
shan't  even  think  that  way." 

When  she  was  gone,  Peter  Martin  filled  and  lighted 
his  pipe  again,  and  for  another  hour  sat  alone. 

Whether  or  not  his  thoughts  bore  any  relation  to 
the  doctrines  of  Jake  Vodell,  they  led  the  old  work 
man,  on  the  following  day,  to  pay  a  visit  to  Adam 
Ward  at  his  home  on  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

OLD  FRIENDS 

IT  was  Sunday  morning  and  the  church  bells  were 
ringing  over  the  little  city  as  the  old  workman 
climbed  the  hill  to  Adam  Ward's  estate. 

There  was  a  touch  of  frost  hi  the  air.  The 
hillside  back  of  the  interpreter's  hut  was  brown. 
But  the  sun  was  bright  and  warm  and  hi  every 
quarter  of  the  city  the  people  were  going  to  their 
appointed  places  of  worship.  The  voice  of  the  Mill 
was  silenced. 

Pete  wondered  if  he  would  find  Adam  at  home. 
He  had  not  thought  about  it  when  he  left  the  cot 
tage — his  mind  had  been  so  filled  with  the  object 
of  his  visit  to  the  man  who  had  once  been  his  work 
ing  comrade  and  friend. 

But  Adam  Ward  was  not  at  church. 

The  Mill  owner's  habits  of  worship  were  very 
simply  regulated.  If  the  minister  said  things  that 
pleased  him,  and  showed  a  properly  humble  grati 
fication  at  Adam's  presence  hi  the  temple  of  God, 
Adam  attended  divine  services.  If  the  reverend 
teacher  hi  the  pulpit  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  say 
anything  that  jarred  Adam's  peculiar  spiritual  sen 
sitiveness,  or  failed  to  greet  this  particular  member  of 
his  flock  with  proper  deference,  Adam  stayed  at 
home  and  stopped  his  subscription  to  the  cause. 

266 


OLD  FRIENDS 


Nor  did  he  ever  fail  to  inform  his  pastor  and  the 
officers  of  the  congregation  as  to  the  reason  for  his 
nonattendance;  always,  at  the  tune,  assuring  them 
that  whenever  the  minister  would  preach  the  truths 
that  he  wanted  to  hear,  his  weekly  offerings  to  the 
Lord  would  be  renewed.  Thus  Adam  Ward  was 
just  and  honest  in  his  religious  life  as  he  was  in  his 
business  dealings.  He  was  ready  always,  to  pay 
for  that  which  he  received,  but,  as  a  matter  of  prin 
ciple,  he  was  careful  always  to  receive  exactly  what 
he  paid  for. 

This  Sunday  morning  Adam  Ward  was  at  home. 

When  Pete  reached  the  entrance  to  the  estate 
the  heavy  gates  were  closed.  As  Mary's  father  stood 
in  doubt  before  the  iron  barrier  a  man  appeared  on 
the  inside. 

"  Good-morning,  Uncle  Pete,"  he  said,  in  hearty 
greeting,  when  he  saw  who  it  was  that  sought 
admittance. 

"Good-morning,  Henry — and  what  are  you  doing 
in  there?"  returned  the  workman,  who  had  known 
the  man  from  his  boyhood. 

The  other  grinned.  "Oh,  I'm  one  of  the  guards 
at  this  institution  now." 

Pete  looked  at  him  blankly.  "Guards?  What 
are  you  guarding,  Henry?" 

Standing  close  to  the  iron  bars  of  the  gate,  Henry 
glanced  over  his  shoulder  before  he  answered  in  a 
low,  cautious  tone,  "Adam." 

The  old  workman  was  shocked.  "What!  you 
don't  mean  it!"  He  shook  his  grizzly  head  sadly. 
"I  hadn't  heard  that  he  was  that  bad." 

267 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Henry  laughed.  "We're  not  keepin'  the  old  boy 
in,  Uncle  Pete — not  yet.  So  far,  our  orders  are  only 
to  keep  people  out.  Dangerous  people,  I  mean — the 
kind  that  might  want  to  run  away  with  the  castle, 
or  steal  a  look  at  the  fountain,  or  sneak  a  smell  of  the 
flowers  or  something — y'  understand." 

Pete  smiled.  "  How  do  you  like  your  job,  Henry?  " 

"Oh,  it's  all  right  just  now  when  the  strike  is  on. 
But  was  you  wantin'  to  come  in,  Uncle  Pete,  or 
just  passing'  by?" 

"I  wanted  to  see  Adam  if  I  could." 

The  man  swung  open  the  gate.  "Help  yourself, 
Uncle  Pete,  just  so  you  don't  stick  a  knife  into  him 
or  blow  him  up  with  a  bomb  or  poison  him  or  some 
thing."  He  pointed  toward  that  part  of  the  grounds 
where  Helen  had  watched  her  father  from  the  arbor. 
"You'll  find  him  over  there  somewhere,  I  think.  I 
saw  him  headed  that  way  a  few  minutes  ago.  The 
rest  of  the  family  are  gone  to  church." 

"Is  Adam's  life  really  threatened,  Henry?"  asked 
Pete,  as  he  stepped  inside  and  the  gates  were  closed 
behind  him. 

"Search  me,"  returned  the  guard,  indifferently. 
"I  expect  if  the  truth  were  known  it  ought  to  be  by 
rights.  He  sure  enough  thinks  it  is,  though. 
Why,  Uncle  Pete,  there  can't  a  butterfly  flit  over 
these  grounds  that  Adam  ain't  a  yellin'  how  there's 
an  aeroplane  a  sailin'  around  lookin'  fer  a  chance 
to  drop  a  monkey  wrench  on  his  head  or  something." 

"Poor  Adam!"  murmured  the  old  workman. 
"  What  a  way  to  live !" 

"Live?"  echoed  the  guard.  "It  ain't  livin'  at 

268 


OLD  FRIENDS 


all — it's  just  bein'  in  hell  before  your  time,  that's 
what  it  is — if  you  ask  me." 

When  Peter  Martin,  making  his  slow  way  through 
the  beautiful  grounds,  first  caught  sight  of  his  old 
bench  mate,  Adam  was  pacing  slowly  to  and  fro 
across  a  sunny  open  space  of  lawn.  As  he  walked, 
the  Mill  owner  was  talking  to  himself  and  moving  his 
arms  and  hands  in  those  continuous  gestures  that 
seemed  so  necessary  to  any  expression  of  his  thoughts. 
Once  Pete  heard  him  laugh.  And  something  in  the 
mirthless  sound  made  the  old  workman  pause.  It 
was  then  that  Adam  saw  him. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  sudden  fear  that  for 
a  moment  seemed  to  paralyze  the  man.  His  gray 
face  turned  a  sickly  white,  his  eyes  were  staring,  his 
jaw  dropped,  his  body  shook  as  if  with  a  chill.  He 
looked  about  as  if  he  would  call  for  help,  and  started 
as  if  to  seek  safety  in  flight. 

"Good-morning,  Adam  Ward,"  said  Pete  Martin. 

And  at  the  gentle  kindliness  in  the  workman's 
voice  Adam's  manner,  with  a  suddenness  that  was 
startling,  changed.  With  an  elaborate  show  of 
friendliness  he  came  eagerly  forward.  His  gray 
face,  twitching  with  nervous  excitement,  beamed 
with  joyous  welcome.  As  he  hurried  across  the 
bit  of  lawn  between  them,  he  waved  his  arms  and 
rubbed  his  hands  together  in  an  apparent  ecstasy 
of  gladness  at  this  opportunity  to  receive  such  an 
honored  guest.  His  voice  trembled  with  high- 
pitched  assurance  of  his  happiness  in  the  occasion. 
He  laughed  as  one  who  could  not  contain  himself 

269 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"  Well,  well,  well — to  think  that  you  have  actually 
come  to  see  me  at  last."  He  grasped  the  work 
man's  hand  hi  both  his  own  with  a  grip  that  was 
excessive  hi  its  hearty  energy.  With  affectionate 
familiarity  he  almost  shouted,  "You  old  scoundrel! 
I  can't  believe  it  is  you.  Where  have  you  been  keep 
ing  yourself?  How  are  Charlie  and  Mary?  Lord, 
but  it's  good  to  see  you  here  hi  my  own  home  like 
this." 

While  Pete  was  trying  to  make  some  adequate 
reply  to  this  effusive  and  startling  reception,  Adam 
looked  cautiously  about  to  see  if  there  were  any 
chance  observers  lurking  near. 

Satisfied  that  no  one  was  watching,  he  said, 
nervously,  "Come  on,  let's  sit  over  here  where  we 
can  talk."  And  with  his  hand  on  Pete's  arm,  he 
led  his  caller  to  lawn  chairs  that  were  hi  the  open, 
well  beyond  hearing  of  any  curious  ear  in  the  shrub 
bery. 

Giving  the  workman  opportunity  for  no  more  than 
an  occasional  monosyllable  hi  reply,  he  poured 
forth  a  flood  of  information  about  his  estate:  The 
architectural  features  of  his  house — the  cost;  the 
loveliness  of  his  trees — the  cost;  the  coloring  of  his 
flowers — the  cost;  the  magnificence  of  his  view. 
And  all  the  while  he  studied  his  caller's  face  with 
sharp,  furtive  glances,  trying  to  find  some  clew  to 
the  purpose  of  the  workman's  visit. 

Peter  Martin's  steady  eyes,  save  for  occasional 
glances  at  the  objects  of  Adam's  interest  as  Adam 
pointed  them  out,  were  fixed  on  the  Mill  owner 
with  a  half -wondering,  half-pitying  expression. 

270 


OLD  FRIENDS 


Adam's  evident  nervousness  increased.  He  talked 
of  his  Mill — how  he  had  built  it  up  from  nothing 
almost,  to  its  present  magnitude — of  the  city  and 
what  he  had  done  for  the  people. 

The  old  workman  listened  without  comment. 

At  last,  apparently  unable  to  endure  the  suspense 
a  moment  longer,  Adam  Ward  said,  nervously, 
"Well,  Pete,  out  with  it!  What  do  you  want?  I 
can  guess  what  you  are  here  for.  We  might  as  well 
get  done  with  it." 

In  his  slow,  thoughtful  manner  of  speech  that  was 
so  different  from  the  Mill  owner's  agitated  expres 
sions,  the  old  workman  said,  "I  have  wanted  for 
nothing,  Adam.  We  have  been  contented  and 
happy  in  our  little  home.  But  now,"  he  paused  as 
if  his  thoughts  were  loath  to  form  themselves  into 
words. 

The  last  vestige  of  pretense  left  Adam  Ward's  face 
as  suddenly  as  if  he  had  literally  dropped  a  mask. 
"It's  a  good  thing  you  have  been  satisfied,"  he  said, 
coldly.  "You  had  better  continue  to  be.  You 
know  that  you  owe  everything  you  have  in  the 
world  to  me!  You  need  not  expect  anything  more." 

"Have  you  not  made  a  big  profit  on  every  hour's 
work  that  I  have  done  in  your  Mill,  Adam?" 

"  Whatever  profit  I  have  or  have  not  made  on  your 
work  is  none  of  your  business,  sir,"  retorted  Adam. 
"I  have  given  you  a  job  all  these  years.  I  could 
have  thrown  you  out.  You  haven't  a  thing  on  earth 
that  you  did  not  buy  with  the  checks  you  received 
from  me.  I  have  worn  myself  out — made  an  invalid 
of  myself — building  up  the  business  that  has  enabled 

271 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

you  and  the  rest  of  my  employees  to  make  a  living. 
Every  cent  that  I  ever  received  from  that  new  proc 
ess  I  put  back  into  the  Mill.  You  have  had  more 
out  of  it  than  I  ever  did." 

Peter  Martin  looked  slowly  about  at  the  evidence 
of  Adam  Ward's  wealth.  When  he  again  faced 
the  owner  of  the  estate  he  spoke  as  if  doubting  that 
he  had  heard  him  clearly.  "But  the  Mill  is  yours, 
Adam?"  he  said,  at  last.  "And  all  this  is  yours. 
How — where  did  it  come  from?" 

"Certainly  the  Mill  is  mine.  Didn't  I  make  it 
what  it  is?  As  for  the  place  here — it  came  from  the 
profits  of  my  business,  of  course.  You  know  I  was 
nothing  but  a  common  workman  when  I  started  out." 

"I  know,"  returned  Pete.  "And  it  was  the  new 
process  that  enabled  you  to  get  control  of  the  Mill — 
to  buy  it  and  build  it  up — wasn't  it?  If  you  hadn't 
happened  to  have  had  the  process  the  Mill  would 
have  made  all  this  for  some  one  else,  wouldn't  it? 
We  never  dreamed  that  the  process  would  grow  into 
such  a  big  thing  for  anybody  when  we  used  to  talk 
it  over  hi  the  old  days,  did  we,  Adam?" 

Adam  Ward  looked  cautiously  around  at  the 
shrubbery  that  encircled  the  bit  of  lawn.  There  was 
no  one  to  be  seen  within  hearing  distance. 

When  he  faced  his  companion  again  the  Mill 
owner's  eyes  were  blazing,  but  he  controlled  his 
voice  by  a  supreme  effort  of  will.  "Look  here, 
Pete,  I'm  not  going  even  to  discuss  that  matter  with 
you.  I  have  kept  you  on  at  the  Mill  and  taken  care 
of  you  all  these  years  because  of  our  old  friendship 
and  because  I  was  sorry  for  you.  But  if  you  don't 

272 


OLD   FRIENDS 


appreciate  what  I  have  done  for  you,  if  you  attempt 
to  start  any  talk  or  anything  I'll  throw  you  and 
Charlie  out  of  your  jobs  to-morrow.  And  I'll 
fix  it,  too,  so  you  will  never  either  of  you  get  another 
day's  work  in  Millsburgh.  That  process  is  my 
property.  No  one  has  any  interest  in  the  patents 
in  any  way.  I  have  it  tied  up  so  tight  that  all  the 
courts  in  the  world  couldn't  take  it  away  from  me. 
Law  is  law  and  I  propose  to  keep  what  the  law  says 
is  mine.  I  have  thousands  of  dollars  to  spend  in 
defense  of  my  legal  rights  where  you  have  dimes. 
You  needn't  whine  about  moral  obligations  either. 
The  only  obligations  that  are  of  any  force  in  busi 
ness  are  legal!  If  you  haven't  brains  enough  to  look 
after  your  own  interests  you  can't  expect  any  one 
else  to  look  after  them  for  you." 

When  Adam  Ward  finished  his  countenance  was 
distorted  with  hate  and  fear.  Before  this  simple, 
kindly  old  workman,  in  whose  honest  soul  there 
was  no  shadow  of  a  wish  to  harm  any  one  in  any 
way,  the  Mill  owner  was  like  a  creature  of  evil  at  bay . 

"I  did  not  come  to  talk  of  the  past,  Adam  Ward," 
said  Pete,  sadly.  "And  I  didn't  come  to  threaten 
you  or  to  ask  anything  for  myself." 

At  the  gentle  sadness  of  his  old  friend's  manner  and 
words,  Adam's  eyes  gleamed  with  vicious  triumph. 
1 '  Well,  out  with  it ! "  he  demanded,  harshly.  ' '  What 
are  you  here  for?" 

"Your  boy  and  my  girl  love  each  other,  Adam." 

An  ugly  grin  twisted  the  gray  lips  of  Pete's 
employer. 

But  Mary's  father  went  on  as  though  he  had  not 

273 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

seen.  "The  children  were  raised  together,  Adam. 
I  have  always  thought  of  John  almost  as  if  he  were 
my  own  son.  It  seems  exactly  right  that  he  should 
want  Mary  and  that  she  should  want  him.  There 
is  no  man  in  the  world  I  would  rather  it  would  be." 

Adam  listened,  still  grinning,  as  the  old  workman 
continued  in  his  slow,  quiet  speech. 

"I  never  cared  before  for  all  that  the  new  process 
made  for  you.  You  wanted  money — I  didn't.  But 
it  don't  seem  right  that  what  you  have — considering 
how  you  got  it — should  stand  in  the  way  of  Mary's 
happiness.  I  understand  that  there  is  nothing  I  can 
do  about  it,  but  I  thought  that,  considering  every 
thing,  you  might  be  willing  to " 

Adam  Ward  laughed  aloud — laughed  until  the 
tears  of  his  insane  glee  filled  his  eyes.  "So  that's 
your  game,"  he  said,  at  last,  when  he  could  speak. 
"You  hadn't  brains  enough  to  protect  yourself  to 
start  out  with  and  you  have  found  out  that  you 
haven't  a  chance  in  the  world  against  me  in  the 
courts.  So  you  try  to  make  it  by  setting  your  girl 
up  to  catch  John." 

"You  must  stop  that  sort  of  talk,  Adam  Ward." 
Peter  Martin  was  on  his  feet,  and  there  was  that  in 
his  usually  stolid  countenance  which  made  the 
Mill  owner  shrink  back.  "I  was  a  fool,  as  you 
say.  But  my  mistake  was  that  I  trusted  you.  I 
believed  in  your  pretended  friendship  for  me.  I 
thought  you  were  as  honest  and  honorable  as  you 
seemed  to  be.  I  didn't  know  that  your  religion 
was  all  such  a  rotten  sham.  I  have  never  cared 
that  you  grew  rich  while  I  remained  poor.  All  these 

274 


OLD   FRIENDS 


years  I  have  been  sorry  for  you  because  I  have  had 
so  much  of  the  happiness  and  contentment  and 
peace  that  you  have  lost.  But  you  must  under 
stand,  sir,  that  there  are  some  things  that  I  will  do 
in  defense  of  my  children  that  I  would  not  do  in 
defense  of  myself." 

Adam,  white  and  trembling,  drew  still  farther 
away.  "Be  careful,"  he  cried,  "I  can  call  half  a 
dozen  men  before  you  can  move." 

Pete  continued  as  if  the  other  had  not  spoken. 
"  There  is  no  reason  in  the  world  why  John  and  Mary 
should  not  many." 

Adam  Ward's  insane  hatred  for  the  workman 
and  his  evil  joy  over  this  opportunity  to  make  his 
old  comrade  suffer  was  stronger  even  than  his  fear. 
With  another  snarling  laugh  he  retorted,  viciously, 
"There  is  the  best  reason  in  the  world  why  they 
will  never  many.  /  am  the  reason,  Pete  Martin! 
And  I'd  like  to  see  you  try  to  do  anything  about  it." 

Mary's  father  answered,  slowly,  "I  do  not  under 
stand  your  hatred  for  me,  Adam.  All  these  years 
I  have  been  loyal  to  you.  I  have  never  talked  of  our 
affairs  to  any  one 

Adam  interrupted  him  with  a  burst  of  uncontrol 
lable  rage.  "Talk,  you  fool!  Talk  all  you  please. 
Tell  everybody  anything  you  like.  Who  will  believe 
you?  You  will  only  get  yourself  laughed  at  for  being 
the  short-sighted  idiot  you  were.  That  process  is 
patented  in  my  name.  I  own  it.  You  don't  need 
to  keep  still  on  my  account,  but  I  tell  you  again 
that  if  you  do  try  to  start  anything  I'll  ruin  you  and 
I'll  ruin  your  children."  Suddenly,  as  if  in  fear  that 

275 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

his  rage  would  carry  him  too  far,  his  manner  changed 
and  he  spoke  with  forced  coldness.  "I  am  sorry  that 
I  cannot  continue  this  interview,  Pete.  You  have 
all  that  you  will  ever  get  from  me — children  or  no 
children.  Go  on  about  your  business  as  usual  and 
you  may  hold  your  job  in  the  Mill  as  long  as  you  are 
able  to  do  your  work.  I  had  thought  that  I  might 
give  you  some  sort  of  a  little  pension  when  you  got 
too  old  to  keep  up  your  end  with  the  rest  of  the  men." 

And  then  Adam  Ward  added  the  crowning  insolent 
expression  of  his  insane  and  arrogant  egotism.  With 
a  pious  smirk  of  his  gray,  twitching  face,  he  said, 
"I  want  you  to  know,  too,  Pete,  that  you  can 
approach  me  any  time  without  any  feeling  of  humil 
iation." 

He  turned  abruptly  away  and  a  moment  later  the 
old  workman,  watching,  saw  him  disappear  behind 
some  tall  bushes. 

As  Pete  Martin  went  slowly  back  to  the  entrance 
gate  he  did  not  know  that  the  owner  of  the  estate 
was  watching  him.  From  bush  to  bush  Adam  crept 
with  the  stealthy  care  of  a  wild  creature,  following  its 
prey — never  taking  his  eyes  from  his  victim,  save  for 
quick  glances  here  and  there  to  see  that  he  himself 
was  not  observed.  Not  until  Pete  had  passed  from 
sight  down  the  hill  road  did  Adam  appear  openly. 
Then,  going  to  the  watchman  at  the  gate,  he  berated 
him  for  admitting  the  old  workman  and  threatened 
him  with  the  loss  of  his  position  if  he  so  offended 
again. 

When  Peter  Martin  arrived  home  he  found  Jake 
276 


OLD   FRIENDS 


Vodell  and  Charlie  discussing  the  industrial  situa 
tion.  The  strike  leader  had  come  once  more  to 
try  to  enlist  the  support  of  the  old  workman  and 
his  son  in  his  war  against  the  employer  class. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  LAST  CHANCE 

JAKE  VODELL  greeted  the  old  workman  cor 
dially.     "You  have  been  to  church  this  fine 
morning,  I   suppose,   heh?"   he  said,  with  a 
sneering  laugh  that  revealed  how  little  his  inter 
view  with  Captain  Charlie  was  contributing  to  his 
satisfaction. 

"No,"  returned  Pete.  "I  did  not  attend  church 
this  morning — I  do  go,  though,  generally." 

"Oh-ho!  you  worship  the  God  of  your  good  master 
Adam  Ward,  I  suppose." 

But  Pete  Martin  was  hi  no  way  disturbed  by  the 
man's  sarcasm.  "No,"  he  said,  slowly,  "I  do  not 
think  that  Adam  and  I  worship  the  same  God." 

"  Is  it  so?  But  when  the  son  goes  to  war  so  bravely 
and  fightg  for  his  masters  one  would  expect  the 
father  to  say  his  prayers  to  his  masters'  God,  heh?" 

Captain  Charlie  retorted,  sharply,  "The  men  who 
fought  in  the  war  fought  for  this  nation — for  every 
citizen  hi  it.  We  fought  for  Mclver  just  as  we 
fought  for  Sam  Whaley.  Our  loyalty  in  this  indus 
trial  question  is  exactly  the  same.  We  will  save  the 
industries  of  this  country  for  every  citizen  alike 
because  our  national  life  is  at  stake.  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  a  sailor  refusing  to  man  the  pumps  on  a 
sinking  ship  because  the  vessel  was  not  his  personal 
property?" 

278 


A  LAST  CHANCE 


"Bah!"  growled  Jake  Vodell.  "Your  profession 
of  loyalty  to  your  country  amuses  me.  Your  coun 
try!  It  is  Mdver's  country — Adam  Ward's  coun 
try,  I  tell  you.  It  is  my  little  band  of  live,  aggressive 
heroes  who  are  the  loyal  ones.  We  are  the  ones  who 
will  save  the  industries,  but  we  will  save  them  for  the 
laboring  people  alone.  And  you  shirkers  in  your 
Mill  workers'  union  are  willing  to  stand  aside  and  let 
us  do  your  fighting  for  you.  Have  you  no  pride 
for  your  class  at  all?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  returned  Captain  Charlie,  "we  have 
plenty  of  class  pride.  Only  you  see,  Vodell,  we  don't 
consider  ourselves  in  your  class.  You  are  no  more 
loyal  to  the  principles  of  our  American  unions  than 
you  are  to  the  principles  of  our  government.  You 
don't  represent  our  unions.  You  represent  something 
foreign  to  the  interests  of  every  American  citizen. 
You  are  trying  to  use  our  unions  in  your  business, 
that  is  all.  And  because  you  manage  to  get  hold  of  a 
few  poor  fellows  like  Sam  Whaley,  you  think  you  can 
lead  the  working  people.  If  you  really  think  our 
loyalty  to  our  country  is  a  joke,  drop  hi  at  an  Amer 
ican  Legion  meeting  some  evening — bring  along  your 
foreign  flag  and  all  your  foreign  friends.  I'll  prom 
ise  you  a  welcome  that  will,  I  think,  convince  you 
that  we  have  some  class  pride  after  all." 

The  agitator  rose  heavily  to  his  feet.  "It  is  your 
friendship  with  this  John  Ward  that  makes  you  turn 
from  your  own  class.  I  have  known  how  it  would  be 
with  you.  But  it  is  no  matter.  You  shall  see. 
We  will  make  a  demonstration  in  Millsburgh  that 
will  win  the  men  of  your  union  in  spite  of  you  and 

279 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

your  crippled  old  basket  maker.  If  you  had  a 
personal  grievance  against  Adam  Ward  as  so  many 
others  have  you  would  be  with  me  fast  enough.  But 
he  and  his  son  have  made  you  blind  with  their  pre 
tended  kindness." 

Pete  Martin  spoke  now  with  a  dignity  and  pride 
that  moved  Captain  Charlie  deeply.  "Mr.  Vodell, 
you  are  wrong.  My  son  is  too  big  to  be  influenced 
in  this  matter  by  any  personal  consideration. 
Whatever  there  is  that  is  personal  between  Charlie 
and  John  or  between  Adam  Ward  and  myself  will 
never  be  brought  into  this  controversy." 

Jake  Vodell  shrugged  his  heavy  shoulders.  "Very 
well — I  will  go  now.  You  will  see  that  in  the  end 
the  working  people  will  know  who  are  for  their 
interests  and  who  are  against  them,  and  we  will 
know,  too,  how  to  reward  our  friends  and  punish 
our  enemies.  I  am  sorry.  I  have  given  you  to-day 
your  last  chance.  You  have  a  pretty  little  place 
here,  heh?" 

There  was  a  look  in  his  dark  face,  as  he  gazed  about 
appraisingly,  that  made  Captain  Charlie  go  a  step 
toward  him.  "  You  have  given  us  our  last  chance? 
Is  this  a  sample  of  the  freedom  that  you  offer  so 
eloquently  to  the  people?  Instead  of  the  imperialist 
Mclver  we  are  to  have  the  imperialist  Vodell,  are  we? 
Between  the  two  of  you  I  prefer  Mclver.  He  is  at 
least  sane  enough  to  be  constructive  in  his  imperial 
ism.  My  father  and  I  have  lived  here  all  our  lives, 
as  most  of  our  neighbors  have.  The  majority  of  the 
workmen  in  this  community  own  their  homes  just 
as  we  do.  We  are  a  part  of  the  life  of  this  city. 

280 


A  LAST  CHANCE 


What  have  you  at  stake?  Where  is  your  home  and 
family?  What  is  your  nationality?  What  is  your 
record  of  useful  industry?  Before  you  talk  about 
giving  a  last  chance  to  workmen  like  my  father  you 
will  need  to  produce  the  credentials  of  your  authority. 
We  have  your  number,  Jake  Vodell.  You  may  as 
well  go  back  to  the  land  where  you  belong,  if  you 
belong  anywhere  on  earth.  You  will  never  hang 
your  colors  in  the  union  Mill  workers'  hall.  We 
have  a  flag  there  now  that  suits  us.  The  chance  you 
offer,  last  or  first,  is  too  darned  big  a  chance  for  any 
sane  American  workman  to  monkey  with." 

Jake  Vodell  answered  harshly  as  he  turned  to  go. 
"At  least  I  know  now  for  sure  who  it  is  that  makes 
the  Mill  workers  such  traitors  to  their  class."  He 
looked  at  Pete.  "Your  son  has  made  his  position 
very  clear.  We  shall  see  now  how  bravely  the  noble 
Captain  will  hold  his  ground.  'As  for  you,  well — 
always  the  old  father  can  pray  to  his  God  for  his  son. 
Itisso,heh?" 

Quickly  the  man  passed  through  the  white  gate 
and  disappeared  down  the  street  toward  the  Flats. 

"I  am  afraid  that  fellow  means  trouble,  son," 
said  Pete,  slowly. 

"Trouble,"  echoed  Captain  Charlie,  "Jake  Vodell 
has  never  meant  anything  but  trouble." 

Adam  Ward  did  not  join  his  family  when  they 
returned  from  church.  A  nervous  headache  kept  him 
in  his  room. 

In  the  afternoon  John  went  for  a  long  drive  into 
the  country.  He  felt  that  he  must  be  alone — that 

281 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

he  must   think   things    out,    for   both    Mary   and 
himself. 

As  he  looked  back  on  it  all  now,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  always  loved  this  girl  companion  of  his 
old-house  days.  In  his  boyhood  he  had  accepted 
her  as  a  part  of  his  daily  life  just  as  he  had  accepted 
his  sister.  Those  years  of  his  schooling  had  been 
careless,  thoughtless  years,  and  followed,  as  they 
were,  by  his  war  experience,  they  seemed  now  to 
have  had  so  small  a  part  in  the  whole  that  they 
scarcely  counted  at  all.  His  renewed  comradeship 
with  Charlie  in  the  army  had  renewed  also,  through 
the  letters  that  Charlie  always  shared  with  him, 
his  consciousness  of  Mary.  In  the  months  just 
passed  his  love  had  ripened  and  become  a  definite 
thing,  fixed  and  certain  in  his  own  mind  and  heart  as 
the  fact  of  life  itself.  He  had  no  more  thought  of 
accepting  as  final  Mary's  answer  than  he  had  of 
turning  the  management  of  the  Mill  over  to  Jake 
Vodell  or  to  Sam  Whaley.  But  still  there  were 
things  that  he  must  think  out. 

On  that  favorite  hillside  spot  where  he  and 
Charlie  had  spent  so  many  hours  discussing  their 
industrial  problems,  John  faced  squarely  the  ques 
tions  raised  by  Mary's  "no." 

Through  the  chill  of  the  fall  twilight  John  went 
home  to  spend  the  evening  with  his  mother.  But 
he  did  not  speak  to  her  of  Mary.  He  could  not, 
somehow,  in  the  house  that  was  so  under  the  shadow 
of  that  hidden  thing. 

His  father  was  still  hi  his  room. 

On  his  way  to  his  own  apartment  after  his  mother 
282 


A  LAST  CHANCE 


had  retired,  John  stopped  at  his  father's  door  to 
knock  gently  and  ask  if  there  was  anything  that  he 
could  do. 

The  answer  came,  "No,  I  will  be  all  right — let  me 
alone." 

Later  Helen  returned  from  somewhere  with 
Mclver.  Then  John  heard  Mclver  leaving  and 
Helen  going  to  her  mother  for  their  usual  good-night 
visit. 

Seeing  the  light  under  his  door,  as  she  passed, 
she  tapped  the  panel  and  called  softly  that  it  was 
time  all  good  little  boys  were  fast  asleep. 

It  was  an  hour,  perhaps,  after  John  had  gone  to 
bed  that  he  was  awakened  by  the  sound  of  some  one 
stealing  quietly  into  his  room.  Against  the  dim 
night  light  in  the  hall,  he  caught  the  outline  of  an 
arm  and  shoulder  as  the  intruder  carefully  closed 
the  door.  Reaching  out  to  the  lamp  at  the  head  of 
his  bed,  he  snapped  on  the  light  and  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

"Father!" 

"Sh — be  careful,  John,  they  will  hear  you!" 
Adam  Ward's  gray  face  was  ghastly  with  nervous 
excitement  and  fear,  and  he  was  shaking  as  with 
a  chill. 

"No  one  must  know  I  told  you,"  he  whispered, 
"but  the  new  process  is  the  source  of  everything 
we  have — the  Mill  and  everything.  If  it  wasn't 
for  my  patent  rights  we  would  have  nothing.  You 
and  I  would  be  working  in  the  Mill  just  like  Pete  and 
his  boy." 

283 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

John  spoke  soothingly.  "Yes,  father,  I  under 
stand,  but  it  will  be  all  right — I'll  take  care  of  it." 

Adam  chuckled.  "They're  after  it.  But  I've 
got  it  all  sewed  up  so  tight  they  can't  touch  it. 
That  old  fool,  Pete,  was  here  to  feel  me  out  to-day." 

"Pete— here!" 

Adam  grinned.     ' '  While  you  folks  were  at  church. ' ' 

"But  what  did  he  want,  father?" 

"They've  got  a  new  scheme  now.  They've 
set  Mary  after  you.  They  figure  that  if  the  girl  can 
land  you  they'll  get  a  chance  at  what  I  have  made 
out  of  the  process  that  way.  I  told  him  you  was  too 
smart  to  be  caught  like  that.  But  you've  got  to 
watch  them.  They'll  do  anything." 

In  spite  of  his  pity  for  his  father,  John  Ward  drew 
from  him,  overcome  by  a  feeling  of  disgust  and  shame 
which  he  could  not  wholly  control. 

Adam,  unconscious  of  his  son's  emotions,  went  on. 
"I've  made  it  all  in  spite  of  them,  John,  but  I've 
had  to  watch  them.  They'll  be  after  you  now  that  I 
have  turned  things  over  to  you,  just  as  they  have 
been  after  me.  They'll  never  get  it,  though. 
They'll  never  get  a  penny  of  it.  I'll  destroy  the  Mill 
and  everything  before  I'll  give  up  a  dollar  of  what 
I've  made." 

John  Ward  could  not  speak.  It  was  too  mon 
strous — too  horrible.  As  one  hi  a  hideous  dream, 
he  listened.  What  was  back  of  it  all?  Why  did 
his  father  hi  his  spells  of  nervous  excitement  always 
rave  so  about  the  patented  process?  Why  did  he 
hate  Pete  Martin  so  bitterly?  What  was  this 
secret  thing  that  was  driving  Adam  Ward  insane? 

284 


A  LAST   CHANCE 


Thinking  to  find  an  answer  to  these  perplexing 
questions,  if  there  was  any  answer  other  than  the 
Mill  owner's  mental  condition,  John  forced  himself 
to  the  pretense  of  sharing  his  father's  fears.  He 
agreed  with  Adam's  arraignment  of  Pete,  echoed 
his  father's  expression  of  hatred  for  the  old  work 
man,  thanked  Adam  for  warning  him,  boasted  of  his 
own  ability  to  see  through  their  tricks  and  schemes 
and  to  protect  the  property  his  father  had  accumu 
lated. 

In  this  vein  they  talked  in  confidential  whispers 
until  John  felt  that  he  could  venture  the  question, 
"  Just  what  is  it  about  the  process  that  they  are  after, 
father?  If  I  knew  the  exact  history  of  the  thing 
I  would  be  in  a  much  better  position  to  handle  the 
situation  as  you  want,  wouldn't  I?" 

Adam  Ward's  manner  changed  instantly.  With  a 
look  of  sly  cunning  he  studied  John's  face.  "There 
is  nothing  about  the  process,  son,"  he  said,  steadily. 
"  You  know  all  there  is  to  know  about  it  now." 

But  when  John,  thinking  that  his  father  had 
regained  his  self-control,  urged  him  to  go  back  to  his 
bed,  Adam's  painful  agitation  returned. 

For  some  moments  he  paced  to  and  fro  as  if  in 
nervous  indecision,  then,  going  close  to  John,  he 
said  in  a  low,  half  whisper,  "John,  there  is  something 
else  I  wanted  to  ask  you.  You  have  been  to  college 
and  over  there  in  the  war,  you  must  have  seen  a  lot 

of  men  die He  paused.  "Yes,  yes,  you  must 

have  been  close  to  death  a  good  many  times.  Tell 
me,  John,  do  you  believe  that  there  is  anything  after 

285 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

— I  mean  anything  beyond  this  life?  Does  a  man's 
conscious  existence  go  on  when  he  is  dead?" 

"Yes,"  said  John,  wondering  at  this  apparent 
change  in  his  father's  thought.  "I  believe  in  a  life 
beyond  this.  You  believe  in  it,  too,  don't  you, 
father?" 

"Of  course,"  returned  Adam.  "We  can't  know, 
though,  for  sure,  can  we?  But,  anyway,  a  man 
would  be  foolish  to  risk  it,  wouldn't  he?" 

"To  risk  what,  father?" 

"To  risk  the  chance  of  there  being  no  hell,"  came 
the  startling  answer.  ' '  My  folks  raised  me  to  believe 
in  hell,  and  the  preachers  all  teach  it.  And  if  there 
should  be  such  a  place  of  eternal  torment  a  man 
would  be  a  fool  not  to  fix  up  some  way  to  get  out  of 
it,  wouldn't  he?" 

John  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

Adam  Ward  leaned  closer  to  his  son  and  with  an 
ah*  of  secrecy  whispered,  "That's  exactly  what  I've 
done,  John — I've  worked  out  a  scheme  to  tie  God 
up  in  a  contract  that  will  force  Him  to  save  me. 
The  old  Interpreter  gave  me  the  idea.  You  see  if  it 
should  turn  out  that  there  is  no  hell  my  plan  can't 
do  any  harm  and  if  there  is  a  hell  it  makes  me  safe 
anyway." 

He  chuckled  with  insane  satisfaction.  "They 
say  that  God  knows  everything — that  nobody  can 
figure  out  a  way  to  beat  Hun,  but  I  have — I  have 
worked  out  a  deal  with  God  that  is  bound  to  give  me 
the  best  of  it.  I've  got  Him  tied  up  so  tight  that  He'll 
be  bound  to  save  me.  Some  people  think  I'm  crazy, 
but  you  wait,  my  boy — they'll  find  out  how  crazy  I 

286 


A   LAST   CHANCE 


am.  They'll  never  get  me  into  hell.  I  have  been 
figuring  011  this  ever  since  the  Interpreter  told  me  I 
had  better  make  a  contract  with  God.  And  after 
Pete  left  this  morning  I  got  it  all  settled.  A  man 
can't  afford  to  take  any  chances  with  God  and  so  I 
made  this  deal  with  Hun.  Hell  or  no  hell,  I'm  safe. 

God  don't  get  the  best  of  me, And  you  are  safe, 

too,  son,  with  the  new  process,  if  you  look  after  your 
own  interests,  as  I  have  done,  and  don't  overlook 
any  opportunities.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  this 
so  you  wouldn't  worry  about  me.  I'll  go  back  to 
bed  now.  Don't  tell  mother  and  Helen  what  we 
have  been  talking  about.  No  use  to  worry  them — 
they  couldn't  understand  anyway.  And  don't  for 
get,  John,  what  Pete  told  me  about  Mary.  Their 
scheme  won't  work  of  course.  I  know  you  are  too 
smart  for  them.  But  just  the  same  you've  got  to  be 
on  your  guard  against  her  all  the  time.  Never  take 
any  unnecessary  chances.  Don't  talk  over  a  deal 
with  a  man  when  any  one  can  hear.  If  you  are 
careful  to  have  no  witnesses  when  you  arrange  a 
deal  you  are  absolutely  safe.  It  is  what  you  can 
slip  into  the  written  contract  that  counts — once 
you  get  your  man's  signature.  That's  always  been 
my  way.  And  now  I  have  even  put  one  over  on 
God." 

He  stole  cautiously  out  of  the  room  and  back  to  his 
own  apartment. 

Outside  his  father's  door  John  waited,  listening, 
until  he  was  convinced  that  sleep  had  at  last  come 
to  the  exhausted  man. 

Late  that  same  Sunday  evening,  when  the  street 
287 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

meeting  held  by  Jake  Vodell  was  over,  there  was 
another  meeting  in  the  room  back  of  the  pool  hall. 
The  men  who  sat  around  that  table  with  the  agi 
tator  were  not  criminals — they  were  workmen. 
Sam  Whaley  and  two  others  were  men  with  families. 
They  were  all  American  citizens,  but  they  were  under 
the  spell  of  their  leader's  power.  They  had  been 
prepared  for  that  leadership  by  the  industrial  policies 
of  Mclver  and  Adam  Ward. 

This  meeting  of  that  inner  circle  was  hi  no  way 
authorized  by  the  unions.  The  things  they  said 
Sam  Whaley  would  not  have  dared  to  say  openly  in 
the  Mill  workers'  organization.  The  plans  they 
proposed  to  carry  out  in  the  name  of  the  unions 
they  were  compelled  to  make  in  secret.  In  their 
mad,  fanatical  acceptance  of  the  dreams  that  Vodell 
wrought  for  them;  in  their  blind  obedience  to  the 
leadership  he  had  so  cleverly  established;  in  their 
reckless  disregard  of  the  consequences  under  the  spell 
of  his  promised  protection,  they  were  as  insane,  in 
fact,  as  the  owner  of  the  Mill  himself . 

The  supreme,  incredible,  pitiful  tragedy  of  it  all 
was  this:  That  these  workmen  committed  them 
selves  to  the  plans  of  Jake  Vodell  in  the  name  of 
their  country's  workmen. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE  FLATS 

HELEN  WARD  knew  that  she  could  not  put 
off  much  longer  giving  Mclver  a  definite 
answer.  When  she  was  with  him,  the 
things  that  so  disturbed  her  mind  and  heart  were  less 
real — she  was  able  to  see  things  clearly  from  the 
point  of  view  to  which  she  had  been  trained.  Her 
father's  mental  condition  was  nothing  more  than  a 
nervous  trouble  resulting  from  overwork — John's 
ideals  were  highly  creditable  to  his  heart  and  she 
loved  him  dearly  for  them,  but  they  were  wholly 
impossible  in  a  world  where  certain  class  standards 
must  be  maintained — the  Mill  took  again  its  old 
vague,  indefinite  place  in  her  life — the  workman 
Charlie  Martin  must  live  only  in  her  girlhood  mem 
ories,  those  secretly  sad  memories  that  can  have  no 
part  in  the  grown-up  present  and  must  not  be  per 
mitted  to  enter  into  one's  consideration  of  the  future. 
In  short,  the  presence  of  Mclver  always  banished 
effectually  the  Helen  of  the  old  house:  with  him  the 
daughter  of  Adam  Ward  was  herself. 

And  Helen  was  tempted  by  this  feeling  of  relief 
to  speak  the  decisive  word  that  would  finally  put 
an  end  to  her  indecision  and  bring  at  least  the 
peace  of  certainty  to  her  troubled  mind.  In  the 
light  of  her  education  and  environment,  there  was 
every  reason  why  she  should  say,  "  Yes"  to  Mclver 's 
insistent  pleadings.  There  was  no  shadow  of  a 

289 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

reason  why  she  should  refuse  him.  One  word  and 
the  Helen  of  the  old  house  would  be  banished  for 
ever — the  princess  lady  would  reign  undisturbed. 

And  yet,  for  some  reason,  that  word  was  not 
spoken.  Helen  told  herself  that  she  would  speak  it. 
But  on  each  occasion  she  put  it  off.  And  always 
when  the  man  was  gone  and  she  was  alone,  in  spite 
of  the  return  in  full  force  of  all  her  disturbing  thoughts 
and  emotions,  she  was  glad  that  she  had  not  com 
mitted  herself  irrevocably — that  she  was  still  free. 

She  had  never  felt  the  appeal  of  all  that  Mclver 
meant  to  her  as  she  felt  it  that  Sunday.  She  had 
never  been  more  disturbed  and  unhappy  than  she 
was  the  following  day  when  John  told  her  a  little  of 
his  midnight  experience  with  their  father  and  how 
Adam's  excitement  had  been  caused  by  Peter 
Martin's  visit.  All  of  which  led  her,  early  in  the 
afternoon,  to  the  Interpreter. 

She  found  the  old  basket  maker  working  with 
feverish  energy.  Billy  Rand  at  the  bench  in  the 
corner  of  the  room  was  as  busy  with  his  part  of  their 
joint  industry. 

It  was  the  Interpreter's  habit,  when  Helen  was 
with  him,  to  lay  aside  his  work.  But  of  late  he  had 
continued  the  occupation  of  his  hands  even  as  he 
talked  with  her.  She  had  noticed  this,  as  women 
always  notice  such  things — but  that  was  all.  On 
this  day,  when  the  old  man  in  the  wheel  chair 
failed  to  give  her  his  undivided  attention,  something 
in  his  manner  impressed  the  trivial  incident  more 
sharply  on  her  mind. 

290 


THE   FLATS 


He  greeted  her  kindly,  as  always,  but  while  she 
was  conscious  of  no  lack  of  warmth  in  his  welcome, 
she  felt  hi  the  deep  tones  of  that  gentle  voice  a  sad 
ness  that  moved  her  to  quick  concern.  The  dark 
eyes  that  never  failed  to  light  with  pleasure  at  her 
coming  were  filled  with  weary  pain.  The  strong 
face  was  thin  and  tired.  As  he  bent  his  white 
head  over  the  work  in  his  lap  he  seemed  to  have 
grown  suddenly  very  weak  and  old. 

With  an  awakened  mind,  the  young  woman  looked 
curiously  about  the  room. 

She  had  never  seen  it  so  filled  with  materials  and 
with  finished  baskets.  The  table  with  the  big  lamp 
and  the  magazines  and  papers  had  been  moved  into 
the  far  corner  against  the  book  shelves,  as  though 
he  had  now  neither  time  nor  thought  for  reading. 
The  floor  was  covered  thick  with  a  litter  of  chips 
and  shavings.  Even  silent  Billy's  face  was  filled 
with  anxiety  and  troubled  care  as  he  looked  from 
Helen  to  his  old  companion  in  the  wheel  chair 
and  slowly  turned  back  to  his  work  on  the  bench. 

"What  is  the  matter  here?"  she  demanded,  now 
thoroughly  aroused. 

"Matter?"  returned  the  Interpreter.  "Is  there 
anything  wrong  here,  Helen?" 

"You  are  not  well,"  she  insisted.  "You  look  all 
worn  out — as  if  you  had  not  slept  for  weeks — what  is 
it?" 

"Oh,  that  is  nothing,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile. 
"Billy  and  I  have  been  working  overtime  a  little — 
that  is  all." 

"But  why?"  she  demanded,  "why  must  you  wear 

291 


HELEN   OF   THE  OLD   HOUSE 

yourself  out  like  this?     Surely  there  is  no  need  for 
you  to  work  so  hard,  day  and  night." 

He  answered  as  if  he  were  not  sure  that  he  had 
heard  her  aright.  "  No  need,  Helen?  Surely,  child, 
you  cannot  be  so  ignorant  of  the  want  that  exists 
within  sight  of  your  home?" 

She  returned  his  look  wonderingly.  "You  mean 
the  strike?" 

Bending  over  his  work  again,  the  old  basket  maker 
answered,  sorrowfully,  "Yes,  Helen,  I  mean  the 
strike." 

There  was  something  in  the  Interpreter's  manner — 
something  hi  the  weary,  drooping  figure  in  that 
wheel  chair — in  the  tired,  deep-lined  face — hi  the 
pain-filled  eyes  and  the  gentle  voice  that  went  to  the 
deeps  of  Helen  Ward's  woman  heart. 

With  her,  as  with  every  one  hi  Millsburgh,  the 
strike  was  a  topic  of  daily  conversation.  She  sym 
pathized  with  her  brother  in  his  anxiety.  She  was 
worried  over  the  noticeable  effect  of  the  excitement 
upon  her  father.  She  was  interested  in  Mclver's 
talk  of  the  situation.  But  in  no  vital  way  had  her 
life  been  touched  by  the  industrial  trouble.  In  no 
way  had  she  come  in  actual  contact  with  it.  The 
realities  of  the  situation  were  to  her  vague,  intan 
gible,  remote  from  her  world,  as  indeed  the  Mill 
itself  had  been,  before  her  visit  with  John  that  day. 
To  her,  the  Interpreter  was  of  all  men  set  apart  from 
the  world.  In  his  little  hut  on  the  cliff,  with  his 
books  and  his  basket  making,  her  gentle  old  friend's 
life,  it  seemed  to  her,  held  not  one  thing  in  common 
with  the  busy  world  that  lay  within  sight  of  the 

292 


THE   FLATS 


balcony-porch.  The  thought  that  the  industrial 
trouble  could  in  any  way  touch  him  came  to  her  with 
a  distinct  shock. 

"Surely,"  she  protested,  at  last,  "the  strike  cannot 
affect  you.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  your  work." 

"Every  strike  has  to  do  with  all  work  everywhere, 
child,"  returned  the  man  in  the  wheel  chair,  while 
his  busy  fingers  wove  the  fabric  of  a  basket.  "Every 
idle  hand  in  the  world,  Helen,  whatever  the  cause  of 
its  idleness,  compels  some  other's  hand  to  do  its 
work.  The  work  of  the  world  must  be  done,  child — 
somehow,  by  some  one — the  work  of  the  world 
must  be  done.  The  little  Maggies  and  Bobbies  of 
the  Flats  down  there  must  be  fed,  you  know — and 
their  mother  too — yes,  and  Sam  Whaley  himself 
must  be  cared  for.  And  so  you  see,  because  of  the 
strike,  Billy  and  I  must  work  overtime." 

Certainly  there  was  no  hint  of  rebuke  in  the  old 
basket  maker's  kindly  voice,  but  the  daughter  of 
Adam  Ward  felt  her  cheeks  flush  with  a  quick  sense 
of  shame.  That  her  old  friend  in  the  wheel  chair 
should  so  accept  the  responsibility  of  his  neighbor's 
need  and  give  himself  thus  to  help  them,  while 

"Is  there,"  she  faltered,  "is  there  really  so  much 
suffering  among  the  strikers?" 

Without  raising  his  eyes  from  his  work,  he  an 
swered,  "The  women  and  children — they  are  so 
helpless." 

"I — I  did  not  realize,"  she  murmured.  "I  did 
not  know." 

"You  were  not  ignorant  of  the  helpless  women 

293 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

and  children  who  suffered  in  foreign  lands,"  he  re 
turned.  "  Why  should  you  not  know  of  the  mothers 
and  babies  in  Millsburgh?" 

"But  Mclver  says "  she  hesitated. 

The  Interpreter  caught  up  her  words.  "Mclver 
says  that  by  feeding  the  starving  families  of  the 
strikers  the  strike  is  prolonged.  He  relies  upon  the 
hunger  and  cold  and  sickness  of  the  women  and 
children  for  his  victory.  And  Jake  Vodell  relies 
upon  the  suffering  hi  the  families  of  his  followers  for 
that  desperate  frenzy  of  class  hatred,  without  which 
he  cannot  gain  his  end.  Does  Mclver  want  for 
anything?  No!  Is  Jake  Vodell  in  need?  No! 
It  is  not  the  imperialistic  leaders  in  these  industrial 
wars  who  pay  the  price.  It  is  always  the  little 
Bobbies  and  Maggies  who  pay.  The  people  of 
America  stood  aghast  with  horror  when  an  unarmed 
passenger  ship  was  torpedoed  or  a  defenseless  village 
was  bombed  by  order  of  a  ruthless  Kaiser;  but  we 
permit  these  Kaisers  of  capital  and  labor  to  carry 
on  their  industrial  wars  without  a  thought  of  the 
innocent  ones  who  must  suffer  under  their  ruthless 
policies." 

He  paused;  then,  with  no  trace  of  bitterness,  but 
only  sadness  in  his  voice,  he  added,  "You  say  you  do 
not  know,  child — and  yet,  you  could  know  so  easily 
if  you  would.  Little  Bobby  and  Maggie  do  not 
live  in  a  far-off  land  across  the  seas.  They  live  right 
over  there  in  the  shadow  of  your  father's  Mill — the 
Mill  which  supplies  you,  Helen,  with  every  material 
need  and  luxury  of  your  life." 

As  if  she  could  bear  to  hear  no  more,  Helen  rose 
294 


THE  FLATS 


quickly  and  went  from  the  room  to  stand  on  the 
balcony-porch. 

It  was  not  so  much  the  Interpreter's  words — it- 
was  rather  the  spirit  in  which  they  were  spoken  that 
moved  her  so  deeply.  By  her  own  heart  she  was 
judged.  "For  every  idle  hand,"  he  had  said.  Her 
hands  were  idle  hands.  Her  old  white-haired  friend 
in  his  wheel  chair  was  doing  her  work.  His 
crippled  body  drooped  with  weariness  over  his  task 
because  she  did  nothing.  His  face  was  lined  with 
care  because  she  was  careless  of  the  need  that  bur 
dened  him.  His  eyes  were  filled  with  sadness  and 
pain  because  she  was  indifferent — because  she  did 
not  know — had  not  cared  to  know. 

The  sun  was  almost  down  that  afternoon  when 
Bobby  Whaley  came  out  of  the  wretched  house  that 
was  his  home  to  stand  on  the  front  doorstep.  The 
dingy,  unpainted  buildings  of  the  Flats — the  untidy 
hovels  and  shanties — the  dilapidated  fences  and 
broken  sidewalks — unlovely  at  best,  in  the  long 
shadows  of  the  failing  day,  were  sinister  with  the 
gloom  of  poverty. 

High  above  the  Mill  the  twisting  columns  of 
smoke  from  the  tall  stacks  caught  the  last  of  the 
sunlight  and  formed  slow,  changing  cloud-shapes — 
rolling  hills  of  brightness  with  soft,  shadowy  valleys 
and  canons  of  mysterious  depths  between — towering 
domes  and  crags  and  castled  heights — grim,  fore 
boding,  beautiful. 

The  boy  who  stood  on  the  steps,  looking  so  list 
lessly  about,  was  not  the  daring  adventurer  who  had 

295 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

so  boldly  led  his  sister  up  the  zigzag  steps  to  the  Inter 
preter's  hut.  He  was  not  the  Bobby  who  had 
ridden  in  such  triumph  beside  the  princess  lady  so 
far  into  the  unknown  country.  His  freckled  face 
was  thin  and  pinched.  The  skin  was  drawn  tight 
over  the  high  cheek  bones  and  the  eyes  were  wide 
and  staring.  His  young  body  that  had  been  so 
sturdy  was  gaunt  and  skeletonlike.  The  dirty  rags 
that  clothed  him  were  scarcely  enough  to  hide  his 
nakedness.  The  keen  autumn  ah*  that  had  put  the 
flush  of  good  red  blood  into  the  cheeks  of  the  golfers 
at  the  country  club  that  afternoon  whirled  about  his 
bare  feet  and  legs  with  stinging  cruelty.  His  thin 
lips  and  wasted  limbs  were  blue  with  cold.  Turn 
ing  slowly,  he  seemed  about  to  reenter  the  house, 
but  when  his  hand  touched  the  latch  he  paused 
and  once  more  uncertainly  faced  toward  the  street. 
There  was  no  help  for  him  in  his  home.  He  knew 
no  other  place  to  go  for  food  or  shelter. 

As  the  boy  again  looked  hopelessly  about  the 
wretched  neighborhood,  he  saw  a  woman  coming 
down  the  street.  He  could  tell,  even  at  that  dis 
tance,  that  the  lady  was  a  stranger  to  the  Flats. 
Her  dress,  simple  as  it  was,  and  her  veil  marked 
her  as  a  resident  of  some  district  more  prosperous 
than  that  grimy  community  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Mill. 

A  flash  of  momentary  interest  lighted  the  hungry 
eyes  of  the  lad.  But,  no,  it  could  not  be  one  of  the 
charity  workers — the  charity  ladies  always  came 
earlier  in  the  day  and  always  in  automobiles. 

Then  he  saw  the  stranger  stop  and  speak  to  a  boy 
296 


THE  FLATS 


in  front  of  a  house  two  doors  away.  The  neighbor 
boy  pointed  toward  Bobby  and  the  lady  came  on, 
walking  quickly  as  if  she  were  a  little  frightened  at 
being  alone  amid  such  surroundings. 

At  the  gap  where  once  had  been  a  gate  in  the  dilap 
idated  fence,  she  turned  in  toward  the  house  and  the 
wondering  boy  on  the  front  step.  She  was  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  lad  when  she  stopped  suddenly  with 
a  low  exclamation. 

Bobby  thought  that  she  had  discovered  her  mis 
take  in  coming  to  the  wrong  place.  But  the  next 
moment  she  was  coming  closer,  and  he  heard, 
" Bobby,  is  that  really  you!  You  poor  child,  have 
you  been  ill?  " 

"/  ain't  been  sick,  if  that's  what  yer  mean/' 
returned  the  boy.  "Mag  is,  though.  She's  worse 
to-day." 

His  manner  was  sullenly  defiant,  as  if  the  warmly 
dressed  stranger  had  in  some  way  revealed  herself  as 
his  enemy. 

"Don't  you  know  me,  Bobby?" 

"Not  with  yer  face  covered  up  like  that,  I 
don't." 

She  laughed  nervously  and  raised  her  veil. 

' '  Huh,  it's  you,  is  it?  Funny — Mag's  been  a-talkin' 
about  her  princess  lady  all  afternoon.  What  yer 
doin'  here?" 

Before  this  hollow-cheeked  skeleton  of  a  boy  Helen 
Ward  felt  strangely  like  one  who,  conscious  of  guilt, 
is  brought  suddenly  into  the  presence  of  a  stern 
judge. 

"Why,  Bobby,"  she  faltered,  "I — I  came  to  see 
297 


you  and  Maggie — I  was  at  the  Interpreter's  this 
afternoon  and  he  told  me — I  mean  something  he 
said  made  me  want  to  come." 

"The  Interpreter,  he's  all  right,"  said  the  boy. 
"So's  Mary  Martin." 

"Aren't  you  just  a  little  glad  to  see  me,  Bobby?" 

The  boy  did  not  seem  to  hear.  "Funny  the  way 
Mag  talks  about  yer  all  the  tune.  She's  purty  sick 
all  right.  Peterson's  baby,  it  died." 

"Can't  we  go  into  the  house  and  see  Maggie? 
You  must  be  nearly  frozen  standing  out  here  in  the 
cold." 

"Huh,  I'm  used  to  freezin' — I  guess  yer  can  come 
on  in  though — if  yer  want  to.  Mebbe  Mag  'd  like 
to  see  yer." 

He  pushed  open  the  door,  and  she  followed  him 
into  the  ghastly  barrenness  of  the  place  that  he  knew 
as  home. 

Never  before  had  the  daughter  of  Adam  Ward 
viewed  such  naked,  cruel  poverty.  She  shuddered 
with  the  horror  of  it.  It  was  so  unreal — so  unbeliev 
able. 

A  small,  rusty  cookstove  with  no  fire — a  rude  table 
with  no  cloth — a  rickety  cupboard  with  its  shelves 
bare  save  for  a  few  dishes — two  broken-backed 
chairs — that  was  all.  No,  it  was  not  all — on  a  win 
dow  ledge,  beneath  a  bundle  of  rags  that  filled  the 
opening  left  by  a  broken  pane,  was  a  small  earthen 
flowerpot  holding  a  single  scraggly  slip  of  geranium. 

Helen  seemed  to  hear  again  the  Interpreter  saying, 
"A  girl  with  true  instincts  for  the  best  things  of  life 
and  a  capacity  for  great  happiness." 

298 


THE  FLATS 


At  Bobby's  call,  Mrs.  Whaley  came  from  another 
room. 

The  boy  did  not  even  attempt  an  introduction  but 
stood  sullenly  aside,  waiting  developments,  and  the 
mother  in  her  pitiful  distress  evidently  failed  to 
identify  their  visitor  when  Helen  introduced  herself. 

"I'm.  pleased  to  meet  you,  ma'am,"  she  said, 
mechanically,  and  gazed  at  the  young  woman  with  a 
stony  indifference,  as  though  her  mind,  deadened 
by  fearful  anxiety  and  physical  suffering,  refused 
even  to  wonder  at  the  stranger's  presence  in  her  home. 

Helen  did  not  know  what  to  say — in  the  presence 
of  this  living  tragedy  of  motherhood  she  felt  so 
helpless,  so  overwhelmed  with  the  uselessness  of 
mere  words.  What  right  had  she,  a  stranger  from 
another  world,  to  intrude  unasked  upon  the  privacy 
of  this  home?  And  yet,  something  deep  within  her — 
something  more  potent  in  its  authority  than  the 
conventionalities  that  had  so  far  ruled  her  life — 
assured  her  that  she  had  the  right  to  be  there. 

"I — I  called  to  see  Bobby  and  Maggie,"  she  fal 
tered.  "I  met  them,  you  know,  at  the  Inter 
preter's." 

As  if  Helen's  mention  of  the  old  basket  maker 
awakened  a  spark  of  life  in  her  pain-deadened  senses, 
the  woman  returned,  "Yes,  ma'am — take  a  chair. 
No,  not  that  one — it's  broke.  Here — this  one  will 
hold  you  up,  I  guess." 

With  nervous  haste  she  dusted  the  chair  with  her 
apron.  "You'd  best  keep  your  things  on.  We 
don't  have  no  fire  except  to  cook  by — when  there's 
anything  to  cook." 

299 


HELEN  OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

She  found  a  match  and  lighted  a  tiny  lamp,  for 
it  was  growing  dark. 

"Bobby  tells  me  that  little  Maggie  is  ill,"  offered 
Helen. 

Mrs.  Whaley  looked  toward  the  door  of  that  other 
room  and  wrung  her  thin,  toil-worn  hands  in  the 
agony  of  her  mother  fear.  "Yes,  ma'am — she's 
real  bad,  I  guess.  Poor  child,  she's  been  ailin'  for 

some  time.  And  since  the  strike "  Her  voice 

broke,  and  her  eyes,  dry  as  if  they  had  long  since 
exhausted  their  supply  of  tears,  were  filled  with 
hopeless  misery. 

"  We  had  the  doctor  once  before  things  got  so  bad; 
about  the  time  my  man  quit  his  work  in  the  Mill 
to  help  Jake  Vodell,  it  was.  And  the  doctor  he 
said  all  she  needed  was  plenty  of  good  food  and 
warm  clothes  and  a  chance  to  play  in  the  fresh  coun 
try  air." 

She  looked  grimly  about  the  bare  room.  "We 
couldn't  have  the  doctor  no  more.  I  don't  know  as 
it  would  make  any  difference  if  we  could.  My  man, 
he's  away  most  of  the  tune.  I  ain't  seen  him  since 
yesterday  mornin'.  And  to-day  Maggie's  been  a 
lot  worse.  I — I'm  afraid " 

Helen  wanted  to  cry  aloud.  Was  it  possible  that 
she  had  asked  the  Interpreter  only  a  few  hours  before 
if  there  was  really  much  suffering  hi  the  families  of 
the  strikers? 

"You  can  see  Maggie  if  you  want,"  said  the 
mother.  "She's  in  there." 

She  rose  as  if  to  show  her  visitor  to  the  room. 

But  Helen  said,  quickly,  "  In  just  a  moment.  Mrs. 
300 


THE  FLATS 


Whaley,  won't  you  tell  me  first — is  there — is  there 
no  one  to  help  you?  "  She  asked  the  question  timidly, 
as  if  fearing  to  offend. 

The  other  woman  answered,  hopelessly,  "The 
charity  ladies  do  a  little,  and  the  Interpreter  and 
Mary  Martin  do  all  they  can.  But  you  see,  ma'am, 
there's  so  many  others  just  like  us  that  there  ain't 
near  enough  to  go  'round." 

The  significance  of  the  woman's  colorless  words 
went  to  Helen's  heart  with  appalling  force — "so 
many  others  just  like  us."  This  stricken  home 
was  not  then  an  exception.  With  flashing  vividness 
her  mind  pictured  many  rooms  similar  to  the  cold 
and  barren  apartment  where  she  sat.  She  visioned 
as  clearly  as  she  saw  Mrs.  Whaley  the  many  other 
wives  and  mothers  with  Bobbies  and  Maggies  who 
were  caught  helplessly  in  the  monstrous  net  of  the 
strike,  as  these  were  caught.  She  knew  now  why 
the  Interpreter  and  Billy  Rand  worked  so  hard. 
And  again  she  felt  her  checks  burn  with  shame  as 
when  the  old  basket  maker  had  said,  "For  every 
idle  hand " 

Helen  Ward  had  been  an  active  leader  in  the  for 
eign  relief  work  during  the  war.  Her  portrait  had 
even  been  published  in  the  papers  as  one  who  was 
devoted  to  the  cause  of  the  stricken  women  and 
children  abroad.  But  that  had  all  been  impersonal, 

while  this Already  in  her  heart  she  was  echoing 

the  old  familiar  cry  of  the  comparative  few,  "If 
only  the  people  knew !  If  only  they  could  be  made  to 
see  as  she  had  been  made  to  see!  The  people  are  not 

301 


HELEN   OF   THE  OLD   HOUSE 

so  cruel.  They  simply  do  not  know.  They  are 
ignorant,  as  she  was  ignorant." 

Aloud  she  was  saying  to  Bobby,  as  she  thrust  her 
purse  in  the  boy's  hand,  "You  must  run  quickly, 
Bobby,  to  the  nearest  store  and  get  the  things  that 
your  mother  needs  first,  and  have  some  one  tele 
phone  for  a  doctor  to  come  at  once." 

To  the  mother  she  added,  hurriedly,  as  if  fearing  a 
protest,  "Please,  Mrs.  Whaley,  let  me  help.  I  am  so 
sorry  I  did  not  know  before.  Won't  you  forgive 
me  and  let  me  help  you  now?" 

"Gee!"  exclaimed  Bobby,  who  had  opened  the 
purse.  "Look-ee,  mom!  Gee!" 

As  one  in  a  dream,  the  mother  turned  from  the 
money  in  the  boy's  hand  to  Helen.  "You  ain't 
meanin',  ma'am,  for  us  to  use  all  that?" 

"Yes — yes — don't  be  afraid  to  get  what  you  need 
—there  will  be  more  when  that  is  gone." 

The  poor  woman  did  not  fill  the  air  with  loud  cries 
of  hysterical  gratitude  and  superlative  prayers  to 
God  for  His  blessing  upon  this  one  who  had  come  so 
miraculously  to  her  relief.  For  a  moment  she  stood 
trembling  with  emotion,  while  her  tearless  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  Helen's  face  with  a  look  of  such  gratitude 
that  the  young  woman  was  forced  to  turn  away  lest 
her  own  feeling  escape  her  control.  Then,  snatching 
the  money  from  the  boy's  hands,  she  said,  "I  had 
better  go  myself,  ma'am — Bobby  can  come  along  to 
help  carry  things.  If  you" — she  hesitated,  with  a 
look  toward  that  other  room — "if  you  wouldn't 
mind  stayin'  with  Maggie  till  we  get  back?  " 

A  minute  later  and  Helen  was  alone  hi  that 
302 


THE  FLATS 


wretched  house  in  the  Flats — alone  save  for  the  sick 
child  in  the  next  room. 

The  door  to  the  street  had  scarcely  closed  when  a 
wave  of  terror  swept  over  her.  She  started  to  her 
feet.  She  could  not  do  it.  She  would  call  Mrs. 
Whaley  back.  She  would  go  herself  for  the  needed 
things.  But  there  was  a  strength  hi  Helen  Ward 
that  few  of  her  most  intimate  friends,  even,  realized; 
and  before  her  hand  touched  the  latch  of  the  door 
she  had  command  of  herself  once  more.  In  much 
the  same  spirit  that  her  brother  John  perhaps  had 
faced  a  lonely  night  watch  in  Flanders  fields,  Adam 
Ward's  daughter  forced  herself  to  do  this  thing  that 
had  so  unexpectedly  fallen  to  her. 

For  some  minutes  she  walked  the  floor,  listening 
to  the  noises  of  the  neighborhood.  Anxiously  she 
opened  the  door  and  looked  out  into  the  fast,  gath 
ering  darkness.  No  one  of  her  own  people  knew 
where  she  was.  She  had  heard  terrible  things  of 
Jake  Vodell  and  his  creed  of  terrorism,  Mclver 
had  pressed  it  upon  her  mind  that  the  strikers  were 
all  alike  in  their  lawlessness.  What  if  Sam  Whaley 
should  return  to  find  her  there?  She  listened — 
listened. 

A  fault,  moaning  sound  came  from  the  next  room. 
She  went  quickly  to  the  doorway,  but  in  the  faint 
light  she  could  see  only  the  shadowy  outline  of  a  bed. 
Taking  the  lamp  she  entered  fearfully. 

Save  for  the  bed,  an  old  box  that  served  as  a  table, 
and  one  chair,  this  room  was  as  bare  as  the  other. 
With  the  lamp  in  her  hand  Helen  stood  beside  the 
bed. 

303 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

The  tiny  form  of  little  Maggie  was  lost  under  the 
ragged  and  dirty  coverlet.  The  child's  face  in  the 
tangled  mass  of  her  unkempt  hair  was  so  wasted  and 
drawn,  her  eyes,  closed  under  their  dark  lids,  so 
deeply  sunken,  and  her  teeth  so  exposed  by  the  thin 
fleshless  lips,  that  she  seemed  scarcely  human.  One 
bony  arm  with  its  clawlike  hand  encircled  the  rag 
doll  that  she  had  held  that  day  when  Helen  took  the 
two  children  into  the  country. 

As  Helen  looked  all  her  fears  vanished.  She  had 
no  thought,  now,  of  where  she  was  or  how  she  came 
there.  Deep  within  her  she  felt  the  awakening  of 
that  mother  soul  which  lives  hi  every  woman.  She 
did  not  shrink  in  horror  from  this  hideous  fruit  of 
Jake  Vodell's  activity.  She  did  not  cry  out  in  pity 
or  sorrow.  She  uttered  no  word  of  protest.  As 
she  put  the  lamp  down  on  the  box,  her  hand  did  not 
tremble.  Very  quietly  she  placed  the  chair  beside 
the  bed  and  sat  down  to  watch  and  wait  as  mother 
hood  in  all  ages  has  watched  and  waited. 

While  poor  Sam  Whaley  was  busy  on  some  mission 
assigned  to  him  by  his  leader,  Jake  Vodell,  and  his 
wife  and  boy  were  gone  for  the  food  supplied  by  a 
stranger  to  his  household,  this  woman,  of  the  class 
that  he  had  been  taught  to  hate,  held  alone  her  vigil 
at  the  bedside  of  the  workman's  little  girl. 

A  thin,  murmuring  voice  came  from  the  bed. 
Helen  leaned  closer.  She  heard  a  few  incoherent 
mutterings — then,  "No — no — Bobby,  yer  wouldn't 
dast  blow  up  the  castle.  Yer'd  maybe  kill  the 
princess  lady — yer  know  yer  couldn't  do  that!" 

Again  the  weak  little  voice  sank  into  low,  meaning- 
304 


THE  FLATS 


less  murmurs.  The  tiny,  clawlike  fingers  plucked  at 
the  coverlet.  "Tain't  so,  the  princess  lady  will 
find  her  jewel  of  happiness,  I  tell  yer,  Bobby,  jest  like 
the  Interpreter  told  us — cause  her  heart  is  kind — yer 
know  her  heart  is — kind — kind " 

Silence  again.  Some  one  passed  the  house.  A 
dog  howled.  A  child  in  the  house  next  door  cried. 
Across  the  street  a  man's  voice  was  raised  hi  anger. 

Suddenly  little  Maggie's  eyes  opened  wide.  "An' 
the  princess  lady  is  a-comin'  some  day  to  take  Bobby 
and  me  away  up  hi  the  sky  to  her  beautiful  palace 
place  where  there's  flowers  and  birds  an'  everythin' 
all  the  time  an' — an' " 

The  big  eyes  were  fixed  on  Helen's  face  as  the 
young  woman  stooped  over  the  bed,  and  the  light 
of  a  glorious  smile  transformed  the  wasted  childish 
features. 

' '  Why — why — yer — yer' ve  come ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXV 

McIVER'S   OPPORTUNITY 

WHEN  the  politician  stopped  at  the  cigar 
stand  late  that  afternoon  for  a  box  of  the 
kind  he  gave  his  admirers,  the  philosopher, 
scratching  the  revenue  label,  remarked,  "I  see  by 
the  papers  that  Mclver  is  still  a-stayin'." 

" Humph!"  grunted  the  politician  with  careful 
diplomacy. 

The  bank  clerk  who  was  particular  about  his 
pipe  tobacco  chimed  in,  "Mclver  is  a  stayer  all  right 
when  it  comes  to  that." 

"Natural  born  fighter,  sir,"  offered  the  politician 
tentatively. 

"Game  sport,  Mclver  is,"  agreed  the  undertaker, 
taking  the  place  at  the  show  case  vacated  by  the 
departing  bank  clerk. 

The  philosopher,  handing  out  the  newcomer's 
favorite  smoke,  echoed  his  customer's  admiration. 
"You  bet  he's  a  game  sport."  He  punched  the 
cash  register  with  vigor.  "Don't  give  a  hang  what 
it  costs  the  other  fellow." 

The  undertaker  laughed. 

"I  remember  one  tune,"  said  the  philosopher, 
"Mclver  and  a  bunch  was  goin'  fishin'  up  the  river. 
They  stopped  here  early  in  the  morning  and  while 
they  was  gettin'  their  smokes  the  judge — who's 

306 


McIVER'S  OPPORTUNITY 


always  handin'  out  some  sort  of  poetry  stuff,  you 
know — he  says:  'Well,  Jim,  we're  goin'  to  have  a 
fine  day  anyway.  No  matter  whether  we  catch 
anything  or  not  it  will  be  worth  the  trip  just  to 
get  out  into  the  country.'  Mac,  he  looked  at  the 
judge  a  minute  as  if  he  wanted  to  bite  him — you 
know  what  I  mean — then  he  says  in  that  growlin' 
voice  of  his,  'That  may  do  for  you  all  right,  judge, 
but  I'm  here  to  tell  you  that  when  I  go  fishin'  I  go 
for  fish:  " 

The  cigar-store  philosopher's  story  accurately 
described  the  dominant  trait  in  the  factory  man's 
character.  To  him  business  was  a  sport,  a  game, 
a  contest  of  absorbing  interest.  He  entered  into  it 
with  all  the  zest  and  strength  of  his  virile  manhood. 
Mind  and  body,  it  absorbed  him.  And  yet,  he  knew 
nothing  of  that  true  sportsman's  passion  which 
plays  the  game  for  the  joy  of  the  game  itself. 
Mclver  played  to  win;  not  for  the  sake  of  winning, 
but  for  the  value  of  the  winnings.  Methods  were 
good  or  bad  only  as  they  won  or  lost.  He  was  inca 
pable  of  experiencing  those  larger  triumphs  which 
come  only  in  defeat.  The  Interpreter's  philosophy 
of  the  " oneness  of  all"  was  to  Mclver  the  fanciful 
theory  of  an  impracticable  dreamer,  who,  too  feeble 
to  take  a  man's  part  in  life,  contented  himself  by 
formulating  creeds  of  weakness  that  befitted  his 
state.  Men  were  the  pieces  with  which  he  played 
his  game — they  were  of  varied  values,  certainly, 
as  are  the  pieces  on  a  chess  table,  but  they  were 
pieces  on  the  chess  table  and  nothing  more.  All  of 
which  does  not  mean  that  Jim  Mclver  was  cruel  or 

307 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

unkind.  Indeed,  he  was  genuinely  and  generously 
interested  in  many  worthy  charities,  and  many  a 
man  had  appealed  to  him,  and  not  hi  vain,  for  help. 
But  to  have  permitted  these  humanitarian  instincts 
to  influence  his  play  hi  the  game  of  business  would 
have  been,  to  his  mind,  evidence  of  a  weakness  that 
was  contemptible.  The  human  element,  he  held, 
must,  of  necessity,  be  sternly  disregarded  if  one 
would  win. 

While  his  fellow  townsmen  were  discussing  him 
at  the  cigar  stand,  and  men  everywhere  hi  Mills- 
burgh  were  commenting  on  his  determination  to 
break  the  strikers  to  his  will  at  any  cost,  Mclver,  at 
his  office,  was  concluding  a  conference  with  a  little 
company  of  his  fellow  employers. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  the  conference  finally 
ended  and  the  men  went  their  several  ways. 
Mclver,  with  some  work  of  special  importance  wait 
ing  his  attention,  telephoned  that  he  would  not  be 
home  for  dinner.  He  would  finish  what  he  had  to 
do  and  would  dine  at  the  club  later  hi  the  evening. 

The  big  factory  inside  the  high,  board  fence  was 
silent.  The  night  came  on.  Save  for  the  armed  men 
who  guarded  the  place,  the  owner  was  alone. 

Absorbed  in  his  consideration  of  the  business 
before  him,  the  man  was  oblivious  of  everything 
but  his  game.  An  hour  went  by.  He  forgot  that 
he  had  had  no  dinner.  Another  hour — and  another. 

He  was  interrupted  at  last  by  the  entrance  of  a 
guard. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?"  he  said,  shortly, 
when  the  man  stood  before  him. 

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McIVER'S  OPPORTUNITY 


"There's  a  woman  outside,  sir.  She  insists  that 
she  must  see  you." 

"A  woman!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  what  does  she  look  like?" 

"I  couldn't  see  her  face,  she's  got  a  veil  on." 

The  factory  owner  considered.  How  did  any  one 
outside  of  his  home  know  that  he  was  hi  his  office  at 
that  hour?  These  tunes  were  dangerous.  "Vodell 
is  likely  to  try  anything,"  he  said,  aloud.  "Better 
send  her  about  her  business." 

"I  tried  to,"  the  guard  returned,  "but  she  won't 
go — says  she  is  a  friend  of  yours  and  has  got  to  see 
you  to-night." 

"A  friend!     Huh!     How  did  she  get  here? " 

"In  a  taxi,  and  the  taxi  beat  it  as  soon  as  she  got 
out." 

Again  Mclver  considered.  Then  his  heavy  jaw 
set,  and  he  growled,  "All  right,  bring  her  in — a 
couple  of  you — and  see  that  you  stand  by  while  she 
is  here.  If  this  is  a  Vodell  trick  of  some  sort,  I'll 
beat  him  to  it." 

Helen,  escorted  by  two  burly  guards,  entered  the 
office. 

Mclver  sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  exclamation  of 
amazement,  and  his  tender  concern  was  unfeigned 
and  very  comforting  to  the  young  woman  after  the 
harrowing  experience  through  which  she  had  just 
passed. 

Sending  the  guards  back  to  their  posts,  he  listened 

309 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

gravely  while  she  told  him  where  she  had  been  and 
what  she  had  seen. 

"But,  Helen,"  he  cried,  when  she  had  finished, 
"it  was  sheer  madness  for  you  to  be  alone  in  the 
Flats  like  that — at  Whaley's  place  and  in  the  night, 
too!  Good  heavens,  girl,  don't  you  realize  what  a 
risk  you  were  taking?" 

"I  had  to  go,  Jim,"  she  returned. 

"You  had  to  go?"  he  repeated.     "Why?" 

"I  had  to  see  for  myself  if — if  things  were  as  bad 
as  the  Interpreter  said.  Oh,  can't  you  under 
stand,  Jim,  I  could  not  believe  it — it  all  seemed  so 
impossible.  Don't  you  see  that  I  had  to  know  for 
sure?" 

"I  see  that  some  one  ought  to  break  that  meddle 
some  old  basket  maker's  head  as  well  as  his  legs," 
growled  Mclver  indignantly.  "The  idea  of  send 
ing  you,  Adam  Ward's  daughter,  of  all  people, 
alone  into  that  nest  of  murdering  anarchists." 

"But  the  Interpreter  didn't  send  me,  Jim,"  she 
protested.  "He  did  not  even  know  that  I  was 
going.  No  one  knew." 

"I  understand  all  that,"  said  Mclver.  "The 
Interpreter  didn't  send  you — oh,  no — he  simply 
made  you  think  that  you  ought  to  go.  That's  the 
way  the  tricky  old  scoundrel  does  everything,  from 
what  I  am  told." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  "Do  you  think,  Jim, 
the  Interpreter's  way  is  such  a  bad  way  to  get  people 
to  do  things?" 

"Forgive  me,"  he  begged  humbly,  "but  it  makes 
me  wild  to  think  what  might  have  happened  to 

310 


MdVER'S  OPPORTUNITY 


you.  It's  all  right  now,  though.  I'll  take  you  home, 
and  in  the  future  you  can  turn  such  work  over  to  the 
regular  charity  organizations."  He  was  crossing 
the  room  for  his  hat  and  overcoat.  "Jove!  I  can't 
believe  yet  that  you  have  actually  been  hi  such  a 
mess  and  all  by  your  lonesome,  too." 

She  was  about  to  speak  when  he  stopped,  and,  as 
if  struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  said,  quickly,  "But 
Helen,  you  haven't  told  me — how  did  you  know  I 
was  here?" 

She  explained  hurriedly,  "The  doctor  sent  a  taxi 
for  me  and  I  telephoned  your  house  from  a  drug 
store.  Your  man  told  me  you  expected  to  be  late 
at  the  office  and  would  dine  at  the  club.  I  phoned 
the  club  and  when  I  learned  that  you  were  not  there 
I  came  straight  on.  I — I  had  to  see  you  to-night, 
Jim.  And  I  was  afraid  if  I  phoned  you  here  at  the 
office  you  wouldn't  let  me  come." 

Mclver  evidently  saw  from  her  manner  that 
there  was  still  something  in  the  amazing  situation 
that  they  had  not  yet  touched  upon.  Coming 
back  to  his  desk,  he  said,  "I  don't  think  I  under 
stand,  Helen.  Why  were  you  in  such  a  hurry  to  see 
me?  Besides,  don't  you  know  that  I  would  have 
gone  to  you,  at  once,  anywhere?" 

"I  know,  Jim,"  she  returned,  slowly,  as  one 
approaching  a  difficult  subject,  "but  I  couldn't  tell 
you  what  I  had  seen.  I  couldn't  talk  to  you  about 
these  things  at  home." 

"I  understand,"  he  said,  gently,  "and  I  am  glad 
that  you  wanted  to  come  to  me.  But  you  are  tired 
and  nervous  and  all  unstrung,  now.  Let  me  take 

311 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

you  home  and  to-morrow  we  will  talk  things 
over." 

As  if  he  had  not  spoken,  she  said,  steadily,  "I 
wanted  to  tell  you  about  the  terrible,  terrible  condi 
tion  of  those  poor  people,  Jim.  I  thought  you  ought 
to  know  about  them  exactly  as  they  are  and  not  in 
a  vague,  indefinite  way  as  I  knew  about  them  before 
I  went  to  see  for  myself." 

The  man  moved  uneasily.  "I  do  know  about  the 
condition  of  these  people,  Helen.  It  is  exactly  what 
I  expected  would  happen." 

She  was  listening  carefully.  "You  expected  them 
to — to  be  hungry  and  cold -and  sick  like  that,  Jim?" 

"Such  conditions  are  always  a  part  of  every  strike 
like  this,"  he  returned.  "There  is  nothing  unusual 
about  it,  and  it  is  the  only  thing  that  will  ever 
drive  these  cattle  back  to  their  work.  They  simply 
have  to  be  starved  to  it." 

"But  John  says " 

He  interrupted.  "Please,  Helen — I  know  all 
about  what  John  says.  I  know  where  he  gets  it, 
too — he  gets  it  from  the  Interpreter  who  gave  you 
this  crazy  notion  of  going  alone  into  the  Flats  to 
investigate  personally.  And  John's  ideas  are  just 
about  as  practical." 

"But  the  mothers  and  children,  Jim?" 

"The  men  can  go  back  to  work  whenever  they  are 
ready,"  he  retorted. 

"At  your  terms,  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"My  terms  are  the  only  terms  that  will  ever  open 
this  plant  again.  The  unions  will  never  dictate  my 

312 


MdVER'S  OPPORTUNITY 


business   policies,    if   every   family   in    Millsburgh 
starves." 

She  waited  a  moment  before  she  said,  slowly, 
"I  must  be  sure  that  I  understand,  Jim — do  you 
mean  that  you  are  actually  depending  upon  such 
pitiful  conditions  as  I  have  seen  to-night  to  give  you 
a  victory  over  the  strikers?" 

The  man  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "It  is 
the  principle  of  the  thing  that  is  at  stake,  Helen. 
If  I  yield  in  this  instance  it  will  be  only  the  beginning 
of  a  worse  trouble.  If  the  working  class  wins  this 
time  there  will  be  no  end  to  their  demands.  We 
might  as  well  turn  all  our  properties  over  to  them 
at  once  and  be  done  with  it.  This  strike  in  Mills- 
burgh  is  only  a  small  part  of  the  general  industrial 
situation.  The  entire  business  interests  of  the 
country  are  involved." 

Again  she  waited  a  little  before  answering.  Then 
she  said,  sadly,  "How  strange!  It  is  hard  for  me  to 
realize,  Jim,  that  the  entire  business  interests  of  this 
great  nation  are  actually  dependent  upon  the  poor 
little  Maggie  Whaleys." 

"Helen!"  he  protested,  "you  make  me  out  a 
heartless  brute." 

' '  No,  Jim,  I  know  you  are  not  that.  But  when  you 
insist  that  what  I  saw  to-night — that  the  suffering 
of  these  poor,  helpless  mothers  and  their  children 
is  the  only  thing  that  will  enable  you  employers  to 
break  this  strike  and  save  the  business  of  the  coun 
try — it — it  does  seem  a  good  deal  like  the  Germans' 
war  policy  of  frightfulness  that  we  all  condemned 
so  bitterly,  doesn't  it?" 

313 


"These  things  are  not  matters  of  sentiment, 
Helen.  Jake  Vodell  is  not  conducting  his  campaign 
by  the  Golden  Rule." 

"I  know,  Jim,  but  I  could  not  go  to  Jake  Vodell  as 
I  have  come  to  you — could  I?  And  I  could  not 
talk  to  the  poor,  foolish  strikers  who  are  so  terribly 
deceived  by  him.  Don't  you  suppose,  Jim,  that 
most  of  the  strikers  think  they  are  right?" 

The  man  stirred  uneasily.  "I  can't  help  what 
they  think.  I  can  consider  only  the  facts  as  they 
are." 

"That  is  just  what  I  want,  Jim,"  she  cried. 
"Only  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  leaving  out  some 
of  the  most  important  facts.  I  can't  help  believing 
that  if  our  great  captains  of  industry  and  kings  of 
finance  and  teachers  of  economics  and  labor  leaders 
would  consider  all  the  facts  they  could  find  some  way 
to  settle  these  differences  between  employers  and 
employees  and  save  the  industries  of  the  country 
without  starving  little  girls  and  boys  and  their 
mothers." 

"If  I  could  have  my  way  the  government  would 
settle  the  difficulty  in  a  hurry,"  he  said,  grimly. 

"You  mean  the  soldiers?" 

"Yes,  the  government  should  put  enough  troops 
from  the  regular  army  in  here  to  drive  these  men 
back  to  their  jobs." 

"But  aren't  these  working  people  just  as  much  a 
part  of  our  government  as  you  employers?  For 
give  me,  Jim,  but  your  plan  sounds  to  me  too 
much  like  the  very  imperialism  that  our  soldiers 
fought  against  in  France." 

314 


McIVER'S  OPPORTUNITY 


" Imperialism  or  not!"  he  retorted,  "the  business 
men  of  this  country  will  never  submit  to  the  dic 
tatorship  of  Jake  Vodell  and  his  kind.  It  would  be 
chaos  and  utter  ruin.  Look  what  they  are  doing  in 
other  countries." 

"Of  course  it  would,"  she  agreed,  "but  the  Inter 
preter  says  that  if  the  business  men  and  employers 
and  the  better  class  of  employees  like  Peter  Martin 
would  get  together  as — as  John  and  Charlie  Martin 
are — that  Jake  Vodell  and  his  kind  would  be  power 
less." 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  continued,  "As  I 
understand  brother  and  the  Interpreter,  this  man 
Vodell  does  not  represent  the  unions  at  all — he  merely 
uses  some  of  the  unions,  wherever  he  can,  through 
such  men  as  Sam  Whaley.  Isn't  that  so,  Jim?  " 

"Whether  it  is  so  or  not,  the  result  is  the  same," 
he  answered.  "If  the  unions  of  the  laboring  classes 
permit  themselves  to  be  used  as  tools  by  men  like 
Jake  Vodell  they  must  take  the  consequences." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  as  one  who  would  end  an  unprof 
itable  discussion.  "Come,  Helen,  it  is  useless  for 
you  to  make  yourself  ill  over  these  questions.  You 
are  worn  out  now.  Come,  you  really  must  let  me 
take  you  home." 

"I  suppose  I  must,"  she  answered,  wearily. 

He  went  to  her.  "It  is  wonderful  for  you  to  do 
what  you  have  done  to-night,  and  for  you  to  come 
to  me  like  this.  Helen — won't  you  give  me  my 
answer — won't  you — ?" 

She  put  out  her  hands  with  a  little  gesture  of 
315 


HELEN    OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

protest.  "  Please,  Jim,  let's  not  talk  about  our 
selves  to-night.  I — I  can't." 

Silently  he  turned  away  to  take  up  his  hat  and 
coat.  Silently  she  stood  waiting. 

But  when  he  was  ready,  she  said,  "Jim,  there  is 
just  one  thing  more." 

" What  is  it,  Helen?" 

"Tell  me  truly:  you  could  stop  this  strike,  couldn't 
you?  I  mean  if  you  would  come  to  some  agreement 
with  your  factory  men,  all  the  others  would  go  back 
to  work,  too,  wouldn't  they?" 

" Yes,"  he  said,  "I  could." 

She  hesitated — then  falteringly,  "Jim,  if  I — if  I 
promise  to  be  your  wife  will  you — will  you  stop  the 
strike?  For  the  sake  of  the  mothers  and  children 
who  are  cold  and  hungry  and  sick,  Jim — will  you — 
will  you  stop  the  strike?" 

For  a  long  minute,  Jim  Mclver  could  not  answer. 
He  wanted  this  woman  as  a  man  of  his  strength 
wants  the  woman  he  has  chosen.  At  the  beginning 
of  their  acquaintance  his  interest  in  Helen  had  been 
largely  stimulated  by  the  business  possibilities  of  a 
combination  of  his  factory  and  Adam  Ward's  Mill. 
But  as  their  friendship  had  grown  he  had  come  to 
love  her  sincerely,  and  the  more  material  considera 
tion  of  their  union  had  faded  into  the  background. 
Men  like  Mclver,  who  are  capable  of  playing  their 
games  of  business  with  such  intensity  and  passion, 
are  capable  of  great  and  enduring  love.  They  are 
capable,  too,  of  great  sacrifices  to  principle.  As  he 
considered  her  words  and  grasped  the  full  force  of 

316 


McIVER'S  OPPORTUNITY 


her  question  his  face  went  white  and  his  nerves  were 
tense  with  the  emotional  strain. 

At  last  he  said,  gently,  "  Helen,  dear,  I  love  you. 
I  want  you  for  my  wife.  I  want  you  more  than  I 
ever  wanted  anything.  Nothing  in  the  world  is  of 
any  value  to  me  compared  with  your  love.  But, 
dear  girl,  don't  you  see  that  I  can't  take  you  like 
this?  You  cannot  sell  yourself  to  me — even  for 
such  a  price.  I  cannot  buy  you."  He  turned  away. 

"Forgive  me,  Jim,"  she  cried.  "I  did  not  realize 
what  I  was  saying.  I — I  was  thinking  of  little 
Maggie — I— I  know  you  would  not  do  what  you 
are  doing  if  you  did  not  think  you  were  right.  Take 
me  home  now,  please,  Jim." 

Silently  they  went  out  to  his  automobile.  Ten 
derly  he  helped  her  into  the  car  and  tucked  the 
robe  about  her.  The  guards  swung  open  the  big 
gates,  and  they  swept  away  into  the  night.  Past 
the  big  Mill  and  the  Flats,  through  the  silent 
business  district  and  up  the  hill  they  glided  swiftly — 
steadily.  And  no  word  passed  between  them. 

They  were  nearing  the  gate  to  the  Ward  estate 
when  Helen  suddenly  grasped  her  companion's  arm 
with  a  low  exclamation. 

At  the  same  moment  Mclver  instinctively  checked 
the  speed  of  his  car. 

They  had  both  seen  the  shadowy  form  of  a  man 
walking  slowly  past  the  entrance  to  Helen's  home. 

To  Helen,  there  was  something  strangely  familiar 
in  the  dim  outlines  of  the  moving  figure.  As  they 
drove  slowly  on,  passing  the  man  who  was  now  in 

317 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

the  deeper  shadows  of  the  trees  and  bushes  which, 
at  this  spot  grew  close  to  the  fence,  she  turned  her 
head,  keeping  her  eyes  upon  him. 

Suddenly  a  flash  of  light  stabbed  the  darkness. 
A  shot  rang  out.  And  another. 

Helen  saw  the  man  she  was  watching  fall. 

With  a  cry,  she  started  from  her  seat;  and  before 
Mclver,  who  had  involuntarily  stopped  the  car, 
could  check  her,  she  had  leaped  from  her  place 
beside  him  and  was  running  toward  the  fallen  man. 

With  a  shout  " Helen!"  Mclver  followed. 

As  she  knelt  beside  the  form  on  the  ground  Mclver 
put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "  Helen,"  he  said, 
sharply,  as  if  to  bring  her  to  her  senses,  "you  must 
not — here,  let  me — 

Without  moving  from  her  position  she  turned  her 
face  up  to  him.  "Don't  you  understand,  Jim?  It 
is  Captain  Charlie." 

Two  watchmen  on  the  Ward  estate,  who  had 
heard  the  shots,  came  running  up. 

Mclver  tried  to  insist  that  Helen  go  with  him  in 
his  roadster  to  the  house  for  help  and  a  larger  car, 
but  she  refused. 

When  he  returned  with  John,  the  chauffeur  and  one 
of  the  big  Ward  machines,  after  telephoning  the 
police  and  the  doctor,  Helen  was  kneeling  over  the 
wounded  man  just  as  he  had  left  her. 

She  did  not  raise  her  head  when  they  stood  beside 
her  and  seemed  unconscious  of  their  presence. 
But  when  John  lifted  her  up  and  she  heard  her 
brother's  voice,  she  cried  out  and  clung  to  him  like 
a  frightened  child. 

318 


McIVER'S   OPPORTUNITY 


The  doctor  arrived  just  as  they  were  carrying 
Captain  Charlie  into  the  room  to  which  Mrs.  Ward 
herself  led  them.  The  police  came  a  moment  later. 

While  the  physician,  with  John's  assistance,  was 
caring  for  his  patient,  Mclver  gave  the  officers  what 
information  he  could  and  went  with  them  to  the 
scene  of  the  shooting. 

He  returned  to  the  house  after  the  officers  had 
completed  then*  examination  of  the  spot  and  the 
immediate  vicinity  just  in  time  to  meet  John,  who 
was  going  out.  Helen  and  her  mother  were  with  the 
doctor  at  the  bedside  of  the  assassin's  victim. 

Mclver  wondered  at  the  anguish  in  John  Ward's 
face.  But  Captain  Charlie's  comrade  only  asked, 
steadily,  "Did  the  police  find  anything,  Jim?" 

"Not  a  thing,"  Mclver  answered.  "What  does 
the  doctor  say,  John?" 

John  turned  away  as  if  to  hide  his  emotion  and  for 
a  moment  did  not  answer.  Then  he  spoke  those 
words  so  familiar  to  the  men  of  Flanders'  fields, 
"Charlie  is  going  West,  Jim.  I  must  bring  his 
father  and  sister.  Would  you  mind  waiting  here 
until  I  return?  Something  might  develop,  you 
know." 

"  Certainly,  I  will  stay,  John — anything  that  I 
can  do — command  me,  won't  you?" 

"Thank  you,  Jim— I'll  not  be  long." 

While  he  waited  there  alone,  Jim  Mclver's  mind 
went  back  over  the  strange  incidents  of  the  evening: 
Helen's  visit  to  the  Whaley  home  and  her  coming 
to  him.  Swiftly  he  reviewed  their  conversation. 

319 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

What  was  it  that  had  so  awakened  Helen's  deep 
concern  for  the  laboring  class?  He  had  before 
noticed  her  unusual  interest  in  the  strike  and  in  the 
general  industrial  situation — but  to-night — he  had 
never  dreamed  that  she  would  go  so  far.  Why  had 
she  continued  to  refuse  an  answer  to  his  pleading? 
What  was  Charlie  Martin  doing  in  that  neighborhood 
at  that  hour?  How  had  Helen  recognized  him  so 
quickly  and  surely  in  the  darkness?  The  man,  as 
these  and  many  other  unanswerable  questions 
crowded  upon  him,  felt  a  strange  foreboding. 
Mighty  forces  beyond  his  understanding  seemed 
stirring  about  him.  As  one  feels  the  gathering  of  a 
storm  in  the  night,  he  felt  the  mysterious  movements 
of  elements  beyond  his  control. 

He  was  disturbed  suddenly  by  the  opening  of  an 
outer  door  behind  him.  Turning  quickly,  he  faced 
Adam  Ward. 

Before  Mclver  could  speak,  the  Mill  owner 
motioned  him  to  be  silent. 

Wondering,  Mclver  obeyed  and  watched  with 
amazement  as  the  master  of  that  house  closed  the 
door  with  cautious  care  and  stole  softly  toward 
him.  To  his  family  Adam  Ward's  manner  would  not 
have  appeared  so  strange,  but  Mclver  had  never 
seen  the  man  under  one  of  his  attacks  of  nervous 
excitement. 

"I'm  glad  you  are  here,  Jim,"  Adam  said,  in  a 
shaking  whisper.  "You  understand  these  things. 
John  is  a  fool — he  don't  believe  when  I  tell  him  they 
are  after  us.  But  you  know  what  to  do.  You 
have  the  right  idea  about  handling  these  unions. 

320 


McIVER'S  OPPORTUNITY 


Kill  the  leaders ;  and  if  the  men  won't  work,  turn  the 
soldiers  loose  on  them.  You  said  the  right  thing, 
'Drive  them  to  their  jobs  with  bayonets.'  Pete 
Martin's  boy  was  one  of  them,  and  he  got  what  was 
coming  to  him  to-night.  And  John  and  Helen 
brought  him  right  here  into  my  house.  They've 
got  him  upstairs  there  now.  They  think  I'll  stand 
for  it,  but  you'll  see — I'll  show  them!  What  was  he 
hanging  around  my  place  for  in  the  night  like  this? 
I  know  what  he  was  after.  But  he  got  what  he 
wasn't  looking  for  this  time  and  Pete  will  get  his 
too,  if  he " 

"Father!" 

Unnoticed,  Helen  had  come  into  the  room  behind 
them.  In  passing  the  open  door  she  had  seen  her 
father  and  had  realized  instantly  his  condition. 
But  the  little  she  had  heard  him  say  was  not  at  all 
unusual  to  her,  and  she  attached  no  special  impor 
tance  to  his  words. 

Adam  Ward  was  like  a  child,  abashed  in  her 
presence. 

She  looked  at  Mclver  appealingly.  "Father  is 
excited  and  nervous,  Jim.  He  is  not  at  all  well, 
you  know." 

Mclver  spoke  with  gentle  authority,  "If  you  will 
permit  me,  I  will  go  with  him  to  his  room  for  a 
little  quiet  talk.  And  then,  perhaps,  he  can  sleep. 
What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Ward?" 

"Yes — yes,"  agreed  Adam,  hurriedly. 

Helen  looked  her  gratitude  and  Mclver  led  the 
Mill  owner  away. 

When  they  were  in  Adam's  own  apartment  and  the 

321 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD  HOUSE 

door  was  shut  Mclver's  manner  changed  with  start 
ling  abruptness.  With  all  the  masterful  power  of 
his  strong-willed  nature  he  faced  his  trembling  host, 
and  his  heavy  voice  was  charged  with  the  force  of  his 
dominating  personality. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Adam  Ward.  You  must  stop  this 
crazy  nonsense.  If  you  act  and  talk  like  this  the 
police  will  have  the  handcuffs  on  you  before  you 
know  where  you  are." 

Adam  cringed  before  him.  "  Jim — I — I — do  they 
think  that  I " 

"Shut  up!"  growled  Mclver.  "I  don't  want  to 
hear  another  word.  I  have  heard  too  much  now. 
Charlie  Martin  stays  right  here  in  this  house  and 
your  family  will  give  him  every  attention.  His 
father  and  sister  will  be  here,  too,  and  you'll  not  open 
your  mouth  against  them.  Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes — yes,"  whispered  the  now  thoroughly 
frightened  Adam. 

"Don't  you  dare  even  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Ward  or 
John  or  Helen  as  you  have  to  me.  And  for  God's 
sake  pull  yourself  together  and  remember — you 
don't  know  any  more  than  the  rest  of  us  about  this 
business — you  were  in  your  room  when  you  heard 
the  shots." 

"Yes,  of  course,  Jim — but  I — I " 

"Shut  up!  You  are  not  to  talk,  I  tell  you — even 
to  me." 

Adam  Ward  whimpered  like  a  child. 

For  another  moment  Mclver  glared  at  him;  then, 
"Don't  forget  that  I  saw  this  affair  and  that  I  went 
over  the  ground  with  the  police.  I'm  going  back 

322 


MdVER'S  OPPORTUNITY 


downstairs  now.  You  go  to  bed  where  you  belong 
and  stay  there." 

He  turned  abruptly  and  left  the  room. 

But  as  he  went  down  the  stairway  Mclver  drew 
his  handkerchief  from  his  pocket  and  wiped  the 
perspiration  from  his  brow. 

"What  in  God's  name,"  he  asked  himself,  "did 
Adam  Ward's  excited  fears  mean?  What  terrible 
thing  gave  birth  to  his  mad  words?  What  awful 
pattern  was  this  that  the  unseen  forces  were  weaving? 
And  what  part  was  he,  with  his  love  for  Helen,  des 
tined  to  fill  in  it  all?  "  That  his  life  was  being  some 
how  woven  into  the  design  he  felt  certain — but  how 
and  to  what  end?  And  again  the  man  in  all  his 
strength  felt  that  dread  foreboding. 

When  Peter  Martin  and  his  daughter  arrived 
with  John  at  the  big  house  on  the  hill,  Mrs.  Ward 
met  them  at  the  door. 

The  old  workman  betrayed  no  consciousness  of 
the  distance  the  years  of  Adam  Ward's  material 
prosperity  had  placed  between  these  two  families 
that  in  the  old-house  days  had  lived  in  such  intimacy. 

Mary  hesitated.  It  must  have  been  that  to  the 
girl,  who  saw  it  between  herself  and  the  happy  ful 
fillment  of  her  womanhood,  the  distance  seemed 
even  greater  than  it  actually  was. 

But  her  hesitation  was  only  for  an  instant.  One 
full  look  into  the  gentle  face  that  was  so  marked  by 
the  years  of  uncomplaining  disappointment  and 
patient  unhappiness  and  Mary  knew  that  in  the  heart 
of  John  Ward's  mother  the  separation  had  brought 

323 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

no  change.  In  the  arms  of  her  own  mother's 
dearest  friend  the  young  woman  found,  even  as 
a  child,  the  love  she  needed  to  sustain  her  in  that 
hour. 

When  they  entered  the  room  where  Captain 
Charlie  lay  unconscious,  Helen  rose  from  her  watch 
beside  the  bed  and  held  out  her  hands  to  her  girlhood 
playmate.  And  in  her  gesture  there  was  a  full 
surrender — a  plea  for  pardon.  Humbly  she  offered 
—lovingly  she  invited — while  she  held  her  place 
beside  the  man  who  was  slowly  passing  into  that 
shadow  where  all  class  forms  are  lost,  as  if  she 
claimed  the  right  before  a  court  higher  than  the 
petty  courts  of  human  customs.  No  word  was 
spoken — no  word  was  needed.  The  daughter  of 
Peter  Martin  and  the  daughter  of  Adam  Ward  knew 
that  the  bond  of  their  sisterhood  was  sealed. 

In  that  wretched  home  in  the  Flats,  little  Maggie 
Whaley  smiled  in  her  sleep  as  she  dreamed  of  her 
princess  lady. 

The  armed  guards  at  their  stations  around 
Mclver's  dark  and  silent  factory  kept  their  watch. 

The  Mill,  under  the  cloud  of  smoke,  sang  the  deep- 
voiced  song  of  its  industry  as  the  night  shift  carried 
on. 

In  the  room  back  of  the  pool  hall,  Jake  Vodell 
whispered  with  two  of  his  disciples. 

In  the  window  of  the  Interpreter's  hut  on  the 
cliff  a  lamp  gleamed  starlike  above  the  darkness 
below. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AT  THE  CALL  OF  THE  WHISTLE 

EVERYWHERE  in  Millsburgh  the  shooting  of 
Captain  Charlie  was  the  one  topic  of  con 
versation.  As  the  patrons  of  the  cigar  stand 
came  and  went  they  talked  with  the  philosopher  of 
nothing  else.  The  dry-goods  pessimist  delivered 
his  dark  predictions  to  a  group  of  his  fellow  citizens 
and  listened  with  grave  shakes  of  his  head  to  the 
counter  opinions  of  the  real-estate  agent.  The 
grocer  questioned  the  garage  man  and  the  lawyer 
discussed  the  known  details  of  the  tragedy  with 
the  postmaster,  the  hotel  keeper  and  the  politician. 
The  barber  asked  the  banker  for  his  views  and 
reviewed  the  financier's  opinion  to  the  judge  while 
a  farmer  and  a  preacher  listened.  The  milliner  told 
her  customers  about  it  and  the  stenographer  dis 
cussed  it  with  the  bookkeeper.  In  the  homes,  on 
the  streets,  and,  later  in  the  day,  throughout  the 
country,  the  shock  of  the  crime  was  felt. 

Meanwhile,  the  efforts  of  the  police  to  find  the 
assassin  were  fruitless.  The  most  careful  search 
revealed  nothing  in  the  nature  of  a  clew. 

Millsburgh  had  been  very  proud  of  Captain  Martin 
and  the  honors  he  had  won  in  France,  as  Millsburgh 
was  proud  of  Adam  Ward  and  his  success — only  with 
a  different  pride.  The  people  had  known  Charlie 

325 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

from  his  birth,  as  they  had  known  his  father  and 
mother  all  their  years.  There  had  been  nothing  in 
the  young  workman's  life — as  every  one  remarked — 
to  lead  to  such  an  end. 

It  is  doubtful  if  in  the  entire  community  there  was 
a  single  soul  that  did  not  secretly  or  openly  think  of 
the  tragedy  as  being  in  some  dark  way  an  outcome 
of  the  strike.  And,  gradually,  as  the  day  passed, 
the  conjectures,  opinions  and  views  crystallized  into 
two  opposing  theories — each  with  its  natural  advo 
cates. 

One  division  of  the  people  held  that  the  deed  was 
committed  by  some  one  of  Jake  VodelPs  followers, 
because  of^the  workman's  known  opposition  to  a 
sympathetic  strike  of  the  Mill  workers'  union. 
Captain  Charlie's  leadership  of  the  Mill  men  was 
recognized  by  all,  and  it  was  conceded  generally 
that  it  was  his  active  influence,  guided  by  the  Inter 
preter's  counsel,  that  was  keeping  John  Ward's 
employees  at  work.  Without  the  assistance  of  the 
Mill  men  the  strike  leader  could  not  hope  for  victory. 
With  Captain  Charlie's  personal  influence  no  longer 
a  factor,  it  was  thought  that  the  agitator  might 
win  the  majority  of  the  Mill  workers  and  so  force 
the  union  into  line  with  the  strikers. 

This  opinion  was  held  by  many  of  the  business  men 
and  by  the  more  thoughtful  members  of  the  unions, 
who  had  watched  with  grave  apprehension  the 
increasing  bitterness  of  the  agitator's  hatred  of 
Captain  Charlie,  because  of  the  workman's  success 
ful  opposition  to  his  schemes. 

The  opposing  theory,  which  was  skillfully  advanced 
326 


AT  THE   CALL  OF  THE  WHISTLE 

by  Jake  Vodell  himself  and  fostered  by  his  followers, 
was  that  the  mysterious  assassin  was  an  agent  of 
Mclver's  and  that  the  deed  was  committed  for  the 
very  purpose  of  charging  the  strikers  with  the  crime 
and  thus  turning  public  sympathy  against  them. 

This  view,  so  plausible  to  the  minds  of  the  strikers, 
prepared,  as  they  were,  by  hardship  and  suffering, 
found  many  champions  among  the  Mill  men  them 
selves.  Not  a  few  of  those  who  had  stood  with 
Charlie  in  his  opposition  to  the  agitator  and  against 
their  union  joining  the  strike  now  spoke  openly  with 
bitter  feeling  against  the  employer  class.  The 
weeks  of  agitation — the  constant  pounding  of 
Vodell's  arguments — the  steady  fire  of  his  oratory 
and  the  continual  appeal  to  their  class  loyalty  made 
it  easy  for  them  to  stand  with  their  fellow  workmen, 
now  that  the  issue  was  being  so  clearly  forced. 

So  the  lines  of  the  industrial  battle  were  drawn 
closer — the  opposing  forces  were  massed  hi  more 
definite  formation — the  feeling  was  more  intense  and 
bitter.  In  the  gloom  and  hush  of  the  impending 
desperate  struggle  that  was  forced  upon  it  by  the 
emissary  of  an  alien  organization,  this  little  Ameri 
can  city  waited  the  coming  of  the  dark  messenger  to 
Captain  Charlie.  It  was  felt  by  all  alike  that  the 
workman's  death  would  precipitate  the  crisis. 

And  through  it  all  the  question  most  often  asked 
was  this,  "Why  was  the  workman,  Charlie  Martin, 
at  the  gate  to  Adam  Ward's  estate  at  that  hour  of  the 
night?" 

To  this  question  no  one  ventured  even  the  sug 
gestion  of  a  satisfactory  answer. 

327 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

All  that  long  day  Helen  kept  her  watch  beside 
the  wounded  man.  Others  were  there  in  the  room 
with  her,  but  she  seemed  unconscious  of  tneir  pres 
ence.  She  made  no  attempt,  now,  to  hide  her  love. 
There  was  no  pretense — no  evasion.  Openly,  before 
them  all,  she  silently  acknowledged  him — her  man — 
and  to  his  claim  upon  her  surrendered  herself  with 
out  reserve. 

James  Mclver  called  but  she  would  not  see  him. 

When  they  urged  her  to  retire  and  rest,  she  an 
swered  always  with  the  same  words:  "  I  must  be  here 
when  he  awakens — I  must." 

And  they,  loving  her,  understood. 

It  was  as  if  the  assassin's  hand  had  torn  aside  the 
curtain  of  material  circumstances  and  revealed 
suddenly  the  realities  of  their  inner  lives.  They 
realized  now  that  this  man,  who  had  in  their  old- 
house  days  won  the  first  woman  love  of  his  girl 
playmate,  had  held  that  love  against  all  the  out 
ward  changes  that  had  taken  her  from  him.  John 
and  his  mother  knew,  now,  why  Helen  had  never 
said  "Yes"  to  Jim  Mclver.  Peter  Martin  and 
Mary  knew  why,  in  Captain  Charlie's  heart,  there 
had  seemed  to  be  no  place  for  any  woman  save 
his  sister. 

At  intervals  the  man  on  the  bed  moved  uneasily, 
muttering  low  words  and  disconnected  fragments  of 
speech.  Army  words — some  of  them  were — as  if 
his  spirit  lived  for  the  moment  again  in  the  fields  of 
France.  At  other  tunes  the  half-formed  phrases 
were  of  his  work — the  strike — his  home.  Again 
he  spoke  his  sister's  name  or  murmured,  "Father," 

328 


AT  THE   CALL  OF   THE  WHISTLE 

or  "John."  But  not  once  did  Helen  catch  the 
word  she  longed  to  hear  him  speak.  It  was  as  if, 
even  in  his  unconscious  mental  wanderings,  the 
man  still  guarded  the  name  that  in  secret  he  had 
held  most  dear. 

Three  times  during  the  day  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  about — wonderingly  at  first — then  as  though 
he  understood.  As  one  contented  and  at  peace,  he 
smiled  and  drifted  again  into  the  shadows.  But 
now  at  tunes  his  hand  went  out  toward  her  with  a 
little  movement,  as  though  he  were  feeling  for  her  in 
the  dark. 

About  midnight  he  seemed  to  be  sleeping  so  nat 
urally  that  they  persuaded  Helen  to  rest.  At  day 
break  she  was  again  at  her  post. 

Mrs.  Ward  and  Mary  had  gone,  in  their  turn,  for 
an  hour  or  two  of  sorely  needed  rest.  Peter  Martin 
was  within  call  downstairs.  John,  who  was  watch 
ing  with  his  sister,  had  left  the  room  for  the  moment 
and  Helen  was  at  the  bedside  alone. 

Suddenly  through  the  quiet  morning  air  came  the 
deep-toned  call  of  the  Mill  whistle. 

As  a  soldier  awakens  at  the  sound  of  the  morning 
bugle,  Captain  Charlie  opened  his  eyes. 

Instantly  she  was  bending  over  him.  As  he  looked 
up  into  her  face  she  called  his  name  softly.  She  saw 
the  light  of  recognition  come  into  his  eyes.  She  saw 
the  glory  of  his  love. 

"Helen,"  he  said — and  again,  "Helen." 

It  was  as  if  the  death  that  claimed  him  had  come 
also  for  her. 


329 


HELEN  OF   THE  OLD  HOUSE 

For  the  first  time  in  many  months  the  voice  of  the 
Mill  was  not  heard  by  the  Interpreter  in  his  little  hut 
on  the  cliff.  Above  the  silent  buildings  the  smoke 
cloud  hung  like  a  pall.  From  his  wheel  chair  the 
old  basket  maker  watched  the  long  procession  mov 
ing  slowly  down  the  hill. 

There  were  no  uniforms  in  that  procession — no 
military  band  with  muffled  drums  led  that  solemn 
march — no  regimental  colors  in  honor  of  the  dead. 
There  were  no  trappings  of  war — no  martial  cere 
mony.  And  yet,  to  the  Interpreter,  Captain  Charlie 
died  in  the  service  of  his  country  as  truly  as  if  he  had 
been  killed  on  the  field  of  battle. 

Long  after  the  funeral  procession  had  passed 
beyond  his  sight,  the  Interpreter  sat  there  at  the 
window,  motionless,  absorbed  in  thought.  Twice 
silent  Billy  came  to  stand  beside  his  chair,  but  he 
did  not  heed.  His  head  was  bowed.  His  great 
shoulders  stooped.  His  hands  were  idle. 

There  was  a  sound  of  some  one  knocking  at  the 
door. 

The  Interpreter  did  not  hear. 

The  sound  was  repeated,  and  this  time  he  raised 
his  head  questioningly. 

Again  it  came  and  the  old  basket  maker  called, 
"Come  in." 

The  door  opened.     Jim  Mclver  entered. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

JAKE  VODELL'S  MISTAKE 

INGE  that  night  of  the  tragedy  Mclver  had 
struggled  to  grasp  the  hidden  meaning  of  the 
strange  series  of  incidents.  But  the  more  he 
tried  to  understand,  the  more  he  was  confused  and 
troubled.  Nor  had  he  been  able,  strong-willed  as  he 
was,  to  shake  off  the  feeling  that  he  was  in  the  midst 
of  unseen  forces — that  about  him  mysterious  influ 
ences  were  moving  steadily  to  some  fixed  and  cer 
tain  end. 

In  constant  touch,  through  his  agents,  with  the 
strike  situation,  he  had  watched  the  swiftly  forming 
sentiment  of  the  public.  He  knew  that  the  turning 
point  of  the  industrial  war  was  near.  He  did  not 
deceive  himself.  He  knew  Jake  Vodell's  power. 
He  knew  the  temper  of  the  strikers.  He  saw 
clearly  that  if  the  assassin  who  killed  Captain 
Charlie  was  not  speedily  discovered  the  community 
would  suffer  under  a  reign  of  terror  such  as  the 
people  had  never  conceived.  And,  what  was  of 
more  vital  importance  to  Mclver,  perhaps,  if  the 
truth  was  not  soon  revealed,  Jake  Vodell's  charges 
that  the  murder  was  inspired  by  Mclver  himself 
would  become,  in  the  minds  of  many,  an  established 
fact.  With  the  full  realization  of  all  that  would 
result  to  the  community  and  to  himself  if  the  identity 
of  the  murderer  was  not  soon  established,  Mclver 

331 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

was  certain  in  his  own  mind  that  he  alone  knew 
the  guilty  man. 

To  reveal  what  he  believed  to  be  the  truth  of  the 
tragedy  would  be  to  save  the  community  and  him 
self — and  to  lose,  for  all  time,  the  woman  he  loved. 
Mclver  did  not  know  that  through  the  tragedy 
Helen  was  already  lost  to  him. 

In  his  extremity  the  factory  owner  had  come  at 
last  to  the  man  who  was  said  to  wield  such  a  power 
ful  influence  over  the  minds  of  the  people.  He  had 
never  before  seen  the  interior  of  that  hut  on  the  cliff 
nor  met  the  man  who  for  so  many  years  had  been 
confined  there.  Standing  just  outside  the  door,  he 
looked  curiously  about  the  room  with  the  uncon 
scious  insolence  of  his  strength. 

The  man  in  the  wheel  chair  did  not  speak. 
When  Billy  looked  at  him  he  signaled  his  wishes  in 
their  silent  language,  and,  watching  his  visitor, 
waited. 

For  a  long  moment  Mclver  gazed  at  the  old  basket 
maker  as  if  estimating  his  peculiar  strength,  then 
he  said  with  an  unintentional  touch  of  contempt 
in  his  heavy  voice,  "So  you  are  the  Interpreter." 

"And  you,"  returned  the  man  in  the  wheel 
chair,  gently,  "are  Mclver." 

Mclver  was  startled.  "How  did  you  know  my 
name?" 

"Is  Mclver's  name  a  secret  also?"  came  the 
strange  reply. 

Mclver's  eyes  flashed  with  a  light  that  those  who 
sat  opposite  him  in  the  game  of  business  had  often 
seen.  With  perfect  self-control  he  said,  coolly,  "I 

332 


JAKE  VODELL'S  MISTAKE 


have  been  told  often  that  I  should  come  to  see  you 
but — "  he  paused  and  again  looked  curiously  about 
the  room. 

The  Interpreter,  smiling,  caught  up  the  unfinished 
sentence.  "But  you  do  not  see  how  an  old,  poverty- 
stricken  and  crippled  maker  of  baskets  can  be  of 
any  use  to  you." 

Mclver  spoke  as  one  measuring  his  words.  "They 
tell  me  you  help  people  who  are  in  trouble." 

"Are  you  then  hi  trouble?"  asked  the  Interpreter, 
kindly. 

The  other  did  not  answer,  and  the  man  hi  the 
wheel  chair  continued,  still  kindly,  "What  trouble 
can  the  great  and  powerful  Mclver  have?  You 
have  never  been  hungry — you  have  never  felt  the 
cold — you  have  no  children  to  starve — no  son  to  be 
killed." 

"I  suppose  you  hold  me  personally  responsible  for 
the  strike  and  for  all  the  hardships  that  the  strikers 
have  brought  upon  themselves  and  then*  families?" 
said  Mclver.  "You  fellows  who  teach  this  brother- 
hood-of-man  rot  and  never  have  more  than  one 
meal  ahead  yourselves  always  blame  men  like  me 
for  all  the  suffering  in  the  world." 

The  Interpreter  replied  with  a  dignity  that 
impressed  even  Mclver.  "Who  am  I  that  I  should 
assume  to  blame  any  one?  Who  are  you,  sir, 
that  assume  the  power  implied  by  either  your 
acceptance  or  your  denial  of  the  responsibility? 
You  are  only  a  part  of  the  whole,  as  I  am  a  part. 
You,  in  your  life  place,  are  no  less  a  creature  of  cir 
cumstances — an  accident — than  I,  here  in  my 

333 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

wheel  chair — than  Jake  Vodell.  We  are  all— 
you  and  I,  Jake  Vodell,  Adam  Ward,  Peter  Martin, 
Sam  Whaley — we  are  all  but  parts  of  the  great 
oneness  of  life.  The  want,  the  misery,  the  suffering, 
the  unhappiness  of  humanity  is  of  that  unity  no 
less  than  is  the  prosperity,  peace  and  happiness  of 
the  people.  Before  we  can  hope  to  bring  order  out 
of  this  industrial  chaos  we  must  recognize  our 
mutual  dependence  upon  the  whole  and  acknowledge 
the  equality  of  our  guilt  hi  the  wretched  conditions 
that  now  exist." 

As  the  Interpreter  spoke,  James  Mclver  again 
felt  the  movement  of  those  unseen  forces  that  were 
about  him.  His  presence  in  that  little  hut  on  the 
cliff  seemed,  now,  a  part  of  some  plan  that  was  not 
of  his  making.  He  was  awed  by  the  sudden  con 
viction  that  he  had  not  come  to  the  Interpreter  of 
his  own  volition,  but  had  been  led  there  by  some 
thing  beyond  his  understanding. 

"Why  should  your  fellow  workmen  not  hate  you, 
sir?"  continued  the  old  basket  maker.  "You  hold 
yourself  apart,  superior,  of  a  class  distinct  and  sep 
arate.  Your  creed  of  class  is  intolerance.  Your 
very  business  policy  is  a  declaration  of  class  war. 
Your  boast  that  you  can  live  without  the  working 
people  is  madness.  You  can  no  more  live  without 
them  than  they  can  live  without  you.  You  can  no 
more  deny  the  mutual  dependence  of  employer  and 
employee  with  safety  to  yourself  than  Samson  of 
old  could  pull  down  the  pillars  of  the  temple  without 
being  himself  buried  in  the  ruins." 

By  an  effort  of  will  Mclver  strove  to  throw  off  the 
334 


JAKE  VODELL'S  MISTAKE 


feeling  that  possessed  him.  He  spoke  as  one 
determined  to  assert  himself.  "We  cannot  recog 
nize  the  rights  of  Jake  Vodell  and  his  lawless  fol 
lowers  to  dictate  to  us  in  our  business.  It  would 
mean  ruin,  not  only  of  our  industries,  but  of  our 
government." 

" Exactly  so/'  agreed  the  Interpreter.  "And 
yet,  sir,  you  claim  for  yourself  the  right  to  live  by 
the  same  spirit  of  imperialism  that  animates  Vodell. 
You  make  the  identical  class  distinction  that  he 
makes.  You  appeal  to  the  same  class  intolerance 
and  hatred.  You  and  Jake  Vodell  have  together 
brought  about  this  industrial  war  in  Millsburgh. 
The  community  itself — labor  unions  and  business 
men  alike — is  responsible  for  tolerating  the  impe 
rialism  that  you  and  this  alien  agitator,  in  opposition 
to  each  other,  advocate.  The  community  is  paying 
the  price." 

The  factory  owner  flushed.  "Of  course  you  would 
say  these  things  to  Jake  Vodell." 

"I  do,"  returned  the  Interpreter,  gently. 

"Oh,  you  are  in  touch  with  him  then?" 

"He  comes  here  sometimes.  He  is  coming  this 
afternoon — at  four  o'clock.  Will  you  not  stay  and 
meet  him,  Mr.  Mclver?" 

Mclver  hesitated.  He  decided  to  ignore  the  invi 
tation.  With  more  respect  in  his  manner  than  he 
had  so  far  shown,  he  said,  courteously,  "May  I 
ask  why  Jake  Vodell  comes  to  you?  " 

The  Interpreter  replied,  sadly,  as  one  who  accepts 
the  fact  of  his  failure,  "For  the  same  reason  that 
Mclver  came." 

335 


HELEN  OF   THE  OLD   HOUSE 

Mclver  started  with  surprise.  "You  know  why 
I  came  to  you?" 

The  man  hi  the  wheel  chair  looked  steadily  into 
his  visitor's  eyes.  "I  know  that  you  are  not  per 
sonally  responsible  for  the  death  of  the  workman, 
Captain  Martin." 

Mclver  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  fairly  gasped  as 
the  flood  of  questions  raised  by  the  Interpreter's 
words  swept  over  him. 

"You — you  know  who  killed  Charlie  Martin?" 
he  demanded  at  last. 

The  old  basket  maker  did  not  answer. 

"If  you  know,"  cried  Mclver,  "why  in  God's 
name  do  you  not  tell  the  people?  Surely,  sir,  you 
are  not  ignorant  of  the  danger  that  threatens  this 
community.  The  death  of  this  union  man  has 
given  Vodell  just  the  opportunity  he  needed  and  he 
is  using  it.  If  you  dare  to  shield  the  guilty  man — 
whoever  he  is — you  will " 

"Peace,  Mclver!  This  community  will  not  be 
plunged  into  the  horrors  of  a  class  war  such  as  you 
rightly  fear.  There  are  yet  enough  sane  and  loyal 
American  citizens  in  Millsburgh  to  extinguish  the 
fire  that  you  and  Jake  Vodell  have  started." 

When  Jake  Vodell  came  to  the  Interpreter's  hut 
shortly  after  Mclver  had  left,  he  was  clearly  in  a 
state  of  nervous  excitement. 

"Well,"  he  said,  shortly,  "I  am  here — what  do 
you  want — why  did  you  send  for  me?" 

The  Interpreter  spoke  deliberately  with  his  eyes 
336 


JAKE  VODELL'S  MISTAKE 


fixed  upon  the  dark  face  of  the  agitator.  "Vodell,  I 
have  told  you  twice  that  your  campaign  in  Mills- 
burgh  was  a  failure.  Your  coming  to  this  com 
munity  was  a  mistake.  Your  refusal  to  recognize 
the  power  of  the  thing  that  mado  your  defeat  certain 
was  a  mistake.  You  have  now  made  your  third  and 
final  mistake." 

"A  mistake!1'  Hah — that  is  what  you  think. 
You  do  not  know.  I  tell  you  that  I  have  turned  a 
trick  that  will  win  for  me  the  game.  Already  the 
people  are  rallying  to  me.  I  have  put  Mclver  at 
last  in  a  hole  from  which  he  will  not  escape.  The 
Mill  workers  are  ready  now  to  do  anything  I  say. 
You  will  see — to-morrow  I  will  have  these  employers 
and  all  their  capitalist  class  eating  out  of  my  hand. 
To  me  they  shall  beg  for  mercy.  I — I  will  dictate 
the  terms  to  them  and  they  will  pay.  You  may 
take  my  word — they  will  pay." 

The  man  paced  to  and  fro  with  the  triumphant 
air  of  a  conqueror,  and  his  voice  rang  with  his 
exultation. 

"No,  Jake  Vodell,"  said  the  Interpreter,  calmly. 
"You  are  deceiving  yourself.  Your  dreams  are  as 
vain  as  your  mistake  is  fatal." 

The  man  faced  the  old  basket  maker  suddenly,  as 
if  arrested  by  a  possible  meaning  hi  the  Interpreter's 
words  that  had  not  at  first  caught  his  attention. 

"And  what  is  this  mistake  that  I  have  made?"  he 
growled. 

The  answer  came  with  solemn  portent.  "You 
have  killed  the  wrong  man." 

The  agitator  was  stunned.  His  mouth  opened  as 
337 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

if  he  would  speak,  but  no  word  came  from  his  trem 
bling  lips.  He  drew  back  as  if  to  escape. 

The  old  man  in  the  wheel  chair  continued, 
sadly,  "I  am  the  one  you  should  have  killed — I  am 
the  cause  of  your  failure  to  gam  the  support  of  the 
Mill  workers'  union." 

The  strike  leader  recovered  himself  with  a  shrug 
of  his  heavy  shoulders. 

"So  that  is  it,"  he  sneered;  "you  would  accuse  me 
of  shooting  your  Captain  Charlie,  heh?" 

"You  have  accused  yourself,  sir." 

"But  how?" 

"By  the  use  you  are  making  of  Captain  Charlie's 
death.  If  you  did  not  know  who  committed  the 
crime — if  you  did  not  feel  sure  that  the  identity  of 
the  assassin  would  remain  a  mystery  to  the  people — 
you  would  not  dare  risk  charging  the  employers 
with  it." 

With  an  oath  the  other  returned,  "I  tell  you  that 
Mclver  or  his  hired  gunmen  did  it  so  they  could  lay 
the  blame  on  the  strikers  and  so  turn  the  Mill  work 
ers'  union  against  us.  That  is  what  the  Mill  men 
believe." 

"That  is  what  you  want  them  to  believe.  It  is 
an  old  trick,  Vodell.  You  have  used  it  before." 

The  agitator's  eyes  narrowed  under  his  scowling 
brows.  "Look  here,"  he  growled,  "I  do  not  like 
this  talk  of  yours.  Perhaps  you  had  better  prove 
what  you  charge,  heh?" 

"Please  God,  I  will  prove  it,"  came  the  calm 
answer. 

Jake  Vodell,  as  he  looked  down  upon  the  seemingly 
338 


JAKE   VODELL'S   MISTAKE 


helpless  old  man  in  the  wheel  chair,  was  think 
ing,  "It  would  be  safer  if  this  old  basket  maker  were 
not  permitted  to  speak  these  things  to  others — his 
influence,  after  all,  is  a  thing  to  consider." 

"No,  Jake  Vodell,"  said  the  Interpreter  gently, 
"you  won't  do  it.  Billy  Rand  is  watching  us.  If 
you  make  a  move  to  do  what  you  are  thinking, 
Billy  will  kill  you." 

The  Interpreter  raised  his  hand  and  his  silent 
companion  came  quickly  to  stand  beside  his  chair. 

With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  Vodell  drew  back  a 
few  steps  toward  the  door. 

"Bah!  Why  should  I  waste  my  time  with  a 
crippled  old  basket  maker — I  have  work  to  do. 
If  you  watch  from  the  window  of  your  shanty  you 
will  see  to-morrow  whether  or  not  the  Mill  workers 
are  with  me.  I  will  make  for  you  a  demonstration 
that  will  be  known  through  the  country.  I  told 
you  at  the  first  that  the  working  people  would  find 
out  who  is  their  friend.  Now  you  shall  see  what 
they  will  do  to  the  enemies  of  then*  class.  Who 
can  say,  Mr.  Interpreter,  perhaps  your  miserable 
hut  so  high  up  here  would  make  a  good  torch  to 
signal  the  beginning  of  the  show,  heh?" 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  Jake  Vodell,  the 
Interpreter  said,  aloud,  "So  he  has  set  to-morrow 
night  for  his  demonstration.  We  must  work  fast, 
Billy — there  is  no  time  to  lose." 

With  his  hands  he  asked  his  companion  for  paper 
and  pencil.  When  Billy  brought  them  he  wrote  a 
few  words  and  folding  the  message  gave  it  to  the 
big  man  who  stood  waiting. 

339 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

For  a  few  minutes  they  talked  together  in  their 
silent  way.  Then  Billy  Rand  put  the  Interpreter's 
message  carefully  in  his  pocket  and  hurriedly  left 
the  hut. 

That  evening  Jake  Vodell  addressed  the  largest 
crowd  that  had  yet  assembled  at  his  street  meetings. 
With  characteristic  eloquence  the  agitator  pictured 
Captain  Charlie  as  a  martyr  to  the  unprincipled 
schemes  of  the  employer  class. 

"Mclver  and  his  crew  are  charging  the  strikers 
with  this  crime  in  order  to  set  our  union  brothers 
against  us,"  he  shouted.  "They  think  that  by  set 
ting  up  a  division  among  us  they  can  win.  They 
know  that  if  the  working  people  stand  together,  true 
to  their  class,  loyal  to  their  comrades,  they  will 
rule  the  world.  Why  don't  the  police  produce  the 
murderer  of  Captain  Charlie?  I  will  tell  you  the 
answer,  my  brother  workmen:  it  is  because  the  law 
and  the  officers  of  the  law  are  under  the  control  of 
those  who  do  not  want  the  murderer  produced— 
that  is  why.  They  dare  not  produce  him.  The  life 
of  a  poor  working  man — what  is  that  to  these 
masters  of  crime  who  acknowledge  no  law  but  the 
laws  they  make  for  themselves.  You  workers  have 
no  laws.  A  slave  knows  no  justice  but  the  whim  of 
his  master.  Think  of  the  mothers  and  children  in 
your  homes — you  slaves  who  create  the  wealth  of 
your  lords  and  masters.  And  now  they  have  taken 
the  life  of  one  of  your  truest  and  most  loyal  union 
leaders.  Where  will  they  stop?  If  you  do  not 
stand  like  men  against  these  cruel  outrages  what 

340 


JAKE  VODELL'S   MISTAKE 


have  you  to  hope  for?  You  know  as  well  as  I  that 
no  workman  in  Millsburgh  would  raise  his  hand 
against  such  a  fellow  worker  as  Captain  Charlie 
Martin." 

While  the  agitator  was  speaking,  Billy  Rand  moved 
quickly  here  and  there  through  the  crowd,  as  if 
searching  for  some  one. 

After  the  mass  meeting  on  the  street  there  was  a 
meeting  of  the  Mill  workers'  union. 

Later,  VodelPs  inner  circle  met  in  the  room  back 
of  Dago  Bill's  pool  hall. 

It  was  midnight  when  Billy  Rand  finally  returned 
to  the  waiting  Interpreter. 

Evidently  he  had  failed  in  the  mission  entrusted 
to  him  by  the  old  basket  maker. 

The  next  morning,  Billy  Rand  again  went  forth 
with  the  Interpreter's  message. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  MOB  AND  THE  MILL 

ON    the  morning   following   the   day    of   the 
funeral  scarcely  half  of  the  usual  force  of 
workmen  appeared  at  the  Mill.     The  men 
who  did  choose  to  work  were  forced  to  pass  a  picket 
line  of  strikers  who  with  jeers  and  threats  and  argu 
ments  sought  to  turn  them  from  their  purpose. 

The  death  of  Captain  Charlie,  by  defining  more 
clearly  the  two  lines  of  public  sentiment,  had 
increased  Jake  Vodell's  strength  materially,  but  the 
Mill  workers'  union  had  not  yet  officially  declared 
for  the  sympathetic  strike  that  would  deliver  the 
community  wholly  into  the  hands  of  the  agitator. 
The  Mill  men,  who  were  still  opposed  to  Jake  Vodell's 
leadership  and  coolly  refused  to  hold  the  employers 
guilty  of  the  death  of  Captain  Charlie  upon  the  mere 
unsupported  assertions  of  the  strike  leader,  were 
therefore  free  to  continue  then*  work.  This  action 
of  the  members  of  the  Mill  workers'  union  who  were 
loyal  to  John,  however,  quite  naturally  increased 
the  feeling  of  their  comrades  who  had  accepted 
Vodell's  version  of  the  murder.  Thus,  the  final 
crisis  of  the  industrial  battle  centered  about  the 
Mill. 

Every  hour  that  John  Ward  could  keep  the  Mill 
running  lessened  Vodell's  chances  of  final  victory. 
The  strike  leader  knew  that  if  these  days  imme- 

342 


THE  MOB  AND   THE  MILL 


diately  following  Captain  Charlie's  death  passed 
without  closing  the  Mill,  his  cause  was  lost.  The 
workmen  were  now  aroused  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
excitement.  The  agitator  realized  that  if  they 
were  not  committed  by  some  action  to  his  cause 
before  the  fever  of  their  madness  began  to  abate,  his 
followers  would,  day  by  day,  in  ever  increasing 
numbers  go  back  to  work  under  John.  The  suc 
cessful  operation  of  the  Mill  was  a  demonstration  to 
the  public  that  Vodell's  campaign  against  the 
employers  was  not  endorsed  by  the  better  and 
stronger  element  of  employees.  To  the  mind  of  the 
strike  leader  a  counter  demonstration  was  impera 
tive.  To  that  immediate  end  the  man  now  bent 
every  effort. 

All  day  the  members  of  the  agitator's  inner  circle 
were  active.  When  evening  came,  a  small  com 
pany  of  men  gathered  in  a  vacant  store  building  not 
far  from  the  Mill.  There  was  little  talk  among 
them.  When  one  did  speak  it  was  to  utter  a  mere 
commonplace  or  perhaps  to  greet  some  newcomer. 
They  were  as  men  who  meet  at  a  given  place  by  agree 
ment  to  carry  out  some  definite  and  carefully  laid 
plan.  Moment  by  moment  the  company  grew  in 
numbers  until  the  gathering  assumed  such  pro 
portions  that  it  overflowed  the  building  and  filled 
the  street.  And  now,  scattered  through  the  steadily 
growing  crowd,  the  members  of  that  inner  circle 
were  busy  with  exhortations  and  arguments  pre 
paring  the  workmen  for  what  was  to  follow. 

Presently  from  the  direction  of  the  strike  head 
quarters  came  another  company  with  Jake  Vodell 

343 


HELEN   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

himself  in  their  midst.  These  had  assembled  at  the 
strike  headquarters.  Without  pausing  they  swept 
on  down  the  street  toward  the  Mill,  taking  with 
them  the  crowd  that  was  waiting  at  the  old  store. 
Scarcely  had  they  reached  the  front  of  the  large 
mahi  building  when  they  were  joined  by  still  another 
crowd  that  had  been  gathering  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Mclver's  factory.  Thus,  with  startling  sudden 
ness,  a  great  company  of  workmen  was  assembled 
at  the  Mill. 

But  a  large  part  of  that  company  had  yet  to  be 
molded  to  Vodell's  purpose.  Many  had  gone  to 
the  designated  places  in  response  to  the  simple 
announcement  that  a  labor  meeting  would  be  held 
there.  Only  those  of  the  agitator's  trusted  inner 
circle  had  known  of  the  plan  to  unite  these  smaller 
gatherings  in  one  great  mass  meeting.  Only  these 
chosen  few  knew  the  real  purpose  of  that  meeting. 
There  were  hundreds  of  workmen  in  that  throng  who 
were  opposed  to  Vodell  and  his  methods,  but  they 
were  unorganized,  with  no  knowledge  of  the  strike 
leader's  plans.  And  so  it  had  been  easy  for  the 
members  of  that  inner  circle  to  lead  these  separate 
smaller  gatherings  to  the  larger  assembly  in  front 
of  the  MiU. 

To  accomplish  the  full  purpose  of  his  demonstra 
tion  against  the  employer  class,  the  strike  leader 
must  make  it  appear  to  the  public  as  the  united 
action  of  the  working  people  of  Millsburgh.  The 
requirements  of  his  profession  made  Jake  Vodell  a 
master  of  mob  psychology.  With  the  leaven  of  his 
chosen  inner  circle  and  the  temper  of  the  many 

344 


THE   MOB  AND  THE  MILL 


strikers  whose  nerves  were  already  strained  to  the 
breaking  point  by  their  weeks  of  privation,  the  agita 
tor  was  confident  that  he  could  bend  the  assembled 
multitude  to  his  will.  Those  who  were  opposed  to 
his  leadership  and  to  his  methods — disorganized 
and  taken  by  surprise  as  they  were — would  be  help 
less.  At  the  same  time  their  presence  in  the  mob 
would  appear  to  give  their  sanction  and  support  to 
whatever  was  accomplished. 

Quickly  word  of  the  gathering  spread  throughout 
the  community.  From  every  direction — from  the 
Flats,  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  Martin  home — 
and  from  the  more  distant  parts  of  the  city — men 
were  moving  toward  the  Mill.  With  every  moment 
the  crowd  increased  in  size.  Everywhere  among 
the  mass  of  men  Vodell's  helpers  were  busy. 

A  block  away  an  automobile  stopped  at  the  curb 
in  front  of  a  deserted  house.  A  man  left  the  car,  and, 
keeping  well  out  of  the  light  from  the  street  lamps, 
walked  swiftly  to  the  outskirts  of  the  mob.  With  his 
face  hidden  by  the  turned-up  collar  of  his  overcoat 
and  the  brim  of  his  hat  pulled  low,  he  moved  here 
and  there  in  the  thin  edge  of  the  multitude. 

The  agitator,  standing  on  a  goods  box  on  the  street 
opposite  the  big  doors  of  the  main  Mill  building, 
began  his  address.  As  one  man,  the  hundreds  of 
assembled  workmen  turned  toward  the  leader  of  the 
strike.  A  hush  fell  over  them.  But  there  was  one 
in  that  great  crowd  to  whom  the  words  of  Jake 
Vodell  meant  nothing.  Silent  Billy  Rand,  pushing 
his  way  through  the  press  of  men,  searched  face 
after  face  with  simple,  untiring  purpose. 

345 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD  HOUSE 

A  squad  of  police  arrived.  Vodell,  calling  atten 
tion  to  them,  facetiously  invited  the  guardians  of  the 
law  to  a  seat  of  honor  on  the  rostrum.  The  crowd 
laughed. 

At  that  moment  Billy  Rand  caught  sight  of  the 
face  he  was  seeking.  When  the  Interpreter's  mes 
senger  grasped  his  arm,  the  man,  who  was  standing 
well  back  in  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  started  with  fear. 
Billy  thrust  the  note  into  his  hand.  As  he  read  the 
message  he  shook  so  that  the  paper  rattled  in  his 
fingers.  Helplessly  he  looked  about.  He  seemed 
paralyzed  with  horror.  Again  Billy  Rand  grasped 
his  arm  and  this  tune  drew  him  aside,  out  of  the 
crowd. 

Helpless  and  shaken,  the  man  made  no  effort  to 
resist,  as  the  Interpreter's  deaf  and  dumb  companion 
hurried  him  away  down  the  street. 

At  the  foot  of  the  zigzag  stairway  Billy's  charge 
sank  down  on  the  lower  step,  as  if  he  had  no  strength 
to  go  on.  Without  a  moment's  pause  Billy  lifted 
him  to  his  feet  and  almost  carried  him  up  the  stairs 
and  into  the  hut  to  place  him,  cowering  and  whim 
pering,  before  the  man  in  the  wheel  chair. 

John  and  Helen  had  gone  to  the  Martin  cottage 
that  evening  to  spend  an  hour  with  the  old  workman 
and  his  daughter.  They  had  just  arrived  when  the 
telephone  rang. 

It  was  the  watchman  at  the  Mill.  He  had  called 
John  at  the  Ward  home,  and  Mrs.  Ward  had  directed 
him  to  call  the  cottage. 

346 


THE  MOB  AND   THE  MILL 


In  a  few  words  John  told  the  others  of  the  crowd  at 
the  Mill.  He  must  go  at  once. 

"But  not  alone,  boy,"  said  Peter  Martin.  "This 
is  no  more  your  job  than  'tis  mine." 

As  they  were  leaving,  John  said  hurriedly  to 
Helen,  "Telephone  Tom  to  come  for  you  at  once  and 
take  Mary  home  with  you.  Mother  may  need 
you,  and  Mary  must  not  be  left  here  alone.  I'll 
bring  Uncle  Pete  home  with  me." 

A  moment  later  the  old  workman  and  the  general 
manager,  in  John's  roadster,  were  on  their  way  to  the 
Mill. 

When  Tom  arrived  at  the  cottage  with  Helen's 
car  the  two  young  women  were  ready.  They  were 
entering  the  automobile  when  Billy  Rand  appeared. 
It  was  evident  from  his  labored  breathing  that  he 
had  been  running,  but  his  face  betrayed  no  excite 
ment.  With  a  pleased  smile,  as  one  who  would  say, 
"Luckily  I  got  here  just  hi  time,"  he  handed  a 
folded  paper  to  Mary. 

By  the  light  of  the  automobile  lamp  she  read  the 
Interpreter's  message  aloud  to  Helen: 

"Telephone  John  to  come  to  me  at  once  with  a  big 
car.  If  you  can't  get  John  tell  Helen." 

For  an  instant  they  looked  at  each  other  ques- 
tioningly.  Then  Helen  spoke  to  the  chauffeur. 
"To  the  Interpreter's,  Tom."  She  indicated  to 
Billy  Rand  that  he  was  to  go  with  them. 

It  was  not  Jake  VodelFs  purpose  to  call  openly  in 
his  address  to  the  assembled  workmen  for  an  attack 
on  the  Mill.  Such  a  demonstration  against  the 

347 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

employer  class  was  indeed  the  purpose  of  the  gather 
ing,  but  it  must  come  as  the  spontaneous  outburst 
from  the  men  themselves.  His  speech  was  planned 
merely  to  lay  the  kindling  for  the  fire.  The  actual 
lighting  of  the  blaze  would  follow  later.  The 
conflagration,  too,  would  be  started  simultaneously 
from  so  many  different  points  in  the  crowd  that  no 
one  individual  could  be  singled  out  as  having  incited 
the  riot. 

The  agitator  was  still  speaking  when  John  and 
Peter  Martin  arrived  on  the  scene.  Quietly  and 
carefully  John  drove  through  the  outskirts  of 
the  crowd  to  a  point  close  to  the  wall  and  not  far 
from  the  main  door  of  the  building,  nearly  opposite 
the  speaker.  Stopping  the  motor  the  two  men  sat 
in  the  car  listening  to  Vodell's  address. 

The  agitator  did  not  call  attention  to  the  presence 
of  the  manager  of  the  Mill  as  he  had  to  the  police, 
nor  was  there  any  noticeable  break  in  his  speech. 
But  throughout  the  great  throng  there  was  a  move 
ment — a  ripple  of  excitement — as  the  men  looked 
toward  John  and  the  old  workman,  and  turned  each 
to  his  neighbor  with  low-spoken  comments.  And 
then,  from  every  part  of  the  crowd,  the  agitator  saw 
individuals  moving  quietly  toward  the  manager's 
car  until  between  the  two  men  in  the  automobile 
and  the  main  body  of  the  speaker's  audience  a  small 
compact  group  of  workmen  stood  shoulder  to 
shoulder.  They  were  the  men  of  the  Mill  workers' 
union  who  had  refused  to  follow  Jake  Vodell.  And 
every  man,  as  he  took  his  place,  greeted  John  and  the 
old  workman  with  a  low  word,  or  a  nod  and  a  smile. 

348 


THE  MOB  AND  THE  MILL 

The  agitator  concluded  his  address,  and  amid  the 
shouts  and  applause  left  his  place  on  the  goods  box 
to  move  a*bout  among  his  followers. 

Presently,  a  low  murmur  arose  like  a  growling 
undertone.  Now  and  then  a  voice  was  raised  sharply 
in  characteristic  threat  or  epithet  against  the 
employer  class.  The  murmur  swelled  into  a  heavy 
menacing  roar.  The  crowd,  shaken  by  some  invis 
ible  inner  force,  swayed  to  and  fro.  A  shrill  yell 
rang  out  and  at  the  signal  scores  of  hoarse  voices 
were  raised  in  shouts  of  mad  defiance — threats  and 
calls  for  action.  As  the  whirling  waters  of  a  mael 
strom  are  drawn  to  the  central  point,  the  mob  was 
massed  before  the  doors  of  the  Mill. 

The  little  squad  of  police  was  struggling  forward. 
John  Ward  sprang  to  his  feet.  The  loyal  union 
men  about  the  car  stood  fast. 

At  the  sound  of  the  manager's  voice  the  mob  hesi 
tated.  In  all  that  maddened  crowd  there  was  not 
a  soul  in  ignorance  of  John  Ward's  comradeship  with 
his  fellow  workmen.  In  spite  of  Jake  VodelFs 
careful  teaching — in  spite  of  his  devilish  skill  in 
using  Mclver  as  an  example  hi  his  appeals  and 
arguments  inciting  their  hatred  against  all  employers 
as  a  class,  they  were  checked  in  their  madness  by  the 
presence  of  Captain  Charlie's  friend. 

But  it  was  only  for  the  moment.  The  members  of 
Vodell's  inner  circle  were  at  work  among  them. 
John  had  spoken  but  a  few  sentences  when  he  was 
interrupted  by  voices  from  the  crowd. 

"Tell  us  where  your  old  man  got  this  Mill  that  he 
says  in  his?" 

349 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"  Where  did  Adam  get  his  castle  on  the  hill?  " 

"We  and  our  families  live  in  shanties." 

"Who  paid  for  your  automobile,  John?" 

"We  and  our  children  walk." 

As  the  manager,  ignoring  the  voices,  continued 
his  appeal,  the  interruptions  came  with  more  fre 
quency,  accompanied  now  by  groans,  shouts,  hisses 
and  derisive  laughter. 

"You're  all  right,  John,  but  you're  in  with  the 
wrong  bunch." 

"We're  going  to  run  things  for  a  while  now  and 
give  you  a  chance  to  do  some  real  work." 

The  police  pleaded  with  them.  The  mob  jeered, 
"Go  get  a  job  with  Mclver's  gunmen.  Go  find  the 
man  who  murdered  Captain  Charlie." 

Once  more  the  growling  undertones  swelled  into 
a  roar.  "Come  on — come  on — we've  had  enough 
talk — let's  do  something." 

As  the  crowd  surged  again  toward  the  Mill  doors, 
there  was  a  forward  movement  of  the  close-packed 
group  of  workmen  about  the  car.  John,  leaning 
over  them,  said,  sharply,  "No — no — not  that — men, 
not  that!" 

Then  suddenly  the  movement  of  the  mob  toward 
the  Mill  was  again  checked  as  Peter  Martin  raised 
his  voice.  "If  you  won't  listen  to  Mr.  Ward," 
said  the  old  man,  when  he  had  caught  their  atten 
tion,  "perhaps  you'll  not  mind  hearin'  me." 

In  the  stillness  of  the  uncertain  moment,  a  voice 
answered,  "Go  ahead,  Uncle  Pete!" 

Standing  on  the  seat  of  the  automobile,  the  kindly 
old  workman  looked  down  into  the  grim  faces  of  his 

350 


THE  MOB  AND   THE   MILL 


comrades.  And,  as  they  saw  him  there  and  thought 
of  Captain  Charlie,  a  deep  breath  of  feeling  swept 
over  the  throng. 

In  his  slow,  thoughtful  way  the  veteran  of  the  Mill 
spoke.  "There'll  be  no  one  among  you,  I'm  think- 
in',  that'll  dare  say  as  how  I  don't  belong  to  the 
workin'  class.  An'  there'll  be  no  man  that'll  deny 
my  right  to  be  heard  in  any  meeting  of  Millsburgh 
working  men.  I  helped  the  Interpreter  to  organize 
the  first  union  that  was  ever  started  in  this  city — 
and  so  far  we've  managed  to  carry  on  our  union  work 
without  any  help  from  outsiders  who  have  no  real 
right  to  call  themselves  American  citizens  even — 
much  less  to  dictate  to  us  American  workmen." 

There  was  a  stir  among  Vodell's  followers.  A 
voice  rose  but  was  silenced  by  the  muttered  protest 
which  it  caused.  Jake  Vodell,  quick  to  grasp  the 
feeling  of  the  crowd,  was  making  his  way  toward 
his  goods  box  rostrum.  Here  and  there  he  paused 
a  moment  to  whisper  to  one  of  his  inner  circle. 

The  old  workman  continued,  "You  all  know  the 
principles  that  my  boy  Charlie  stood  for.  You  know 
that  he  was  just  as  much  against  employers  like 
Mclver  as  he  was  against  men  like  this  agitator  who 
is  leading  you  into  this  trouble  here  to-night.  Jake 
Vodell  has  made  you  believe  that  my  boy  was  killed 
by  the  employer  class.  But  I  tell  you  men  that 
Charlie  had  no  better  friend  in  the  world  than  his 
employer,  John  Ward.  And  I  tell  you  that  John 
and  Charlie  were  working  together  here  for  the  best 
interests  of  us  all — just  as  they  were  together  in 
France.  You  know  what  my  boy  would  say  if  he  was 

351 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

here  to-night.  He  would  say  just  what  I  am  say 
ing.  He  would  tell  you  that  we  workmen  have  got 
to  stand  by  the  employers  who  stand  by  us.  He 
would  tell  you  that  we  American  union  workmen 
must  protect  ourselves  and  our  country  against  this 
anarchy  and  lawlessness  that  has  got  you  men  here 
to-night  so  all  excited  and  beside  yourselves  that 
you  don't  know  what  you're  doing.  In  Captain 
Charlie's  name  I  ask  you  men  to  break  up  this  mob 
and  go  quietly  to  your  homes  where  you  can  think 
this  thing  over.  We " 

From  his  position  across  the  street  Jake  Vodell 
suddenly  interrupted  the  old  workman  with  a  rapid 
fire  of  questions  and  insinuations  and  appeals  to  the 
mob. 

Peter  Martin,  poorly  equipped  for  a  duel  of  words 
with  such  a  master  of  the  art,  was  silenced. 

Slowly  the  mob  swung  again  to  the  agitator. 
Under  the  spell  of  his  influence  they  were  respond 
ing  once  more  to  his  call,  when  a  big  automobile 
rolled  swiftly  up  to  the  edge  of  the  crowd  and  stopped. 

John  Ward  was  the  first  to  recognize  his  sister's 
car.  With  a  word  to  the  men  near  him  he  sprang  to 
the  ground  and  ran  forward.  The  loyal  workmen 
went  with  him. 

In  the  surprise  of  the  moment,  not  knowing  what 
was  about  to  happen,  Jake  Vodell  stood  silent.  In 
breathless  suspense  every  eye  in  the  crowd  was 
fixed  upon  that  little  group  about  Helen's  car. 

Another  moment  and  the  assembled  workmen 
witnessed  a  sight  that  they  will  never  forget.  Down 
the  lane  that  opened  as  if  by  magic  through  the  mass 

352 


THE  MOB  AND   THE  MILL 

of  men  came  the  loyal  members  of  the  Mill  workers' 
union.  High  on  their  shoulders  they  carried  the 
Interpreter. 

In  a  silence,  deep  as  the  stillness  of  death,  they 
bore  him  through  those  close-packed  walls  of  human 
ity,  straight  to  the  big  doors  of  the  Mill.  With 
then-  backs  against  the  building  they  held  him 
high — face  to  face  with  Jake  Vodell  and  the  mob 
that  the  agitator  was  swaying  to  his  will. 

The  old  basket  maker's  head  was  bare  and  against 
the  dark  background  of  the  dingy  walls  his  venerable 
face  with  its  crown  of  silvery  hair  was  as  the  face  of 
a  prophet. 

They  did  not  cheer.  In  silent  awe  they  stood  with 
tense,  upturned  faces. 

A  voice,  low  but  clear  and  distinct,  cut  the  still 
ness. 

"Hats  off!" 

As  one  man,  they  uncovered  their  heads. 

The  Interpreter's  deep  voice — kindly  but  charged 
with  strange  authority — swept  over  them. 

"  Workmen — what  are  you  doing  here?  Are  you 
toys  that  you  give  yourselves  as  playthings  into 
the  hands  of  this  man  who  chooses  to  use  you  in  his 
game?  Are  you  children  to  be  led  by  his  idle  words 
and  moved  by  his  foolish  dreams?  Are  you  men  or 
are  you  cattle  to  be  stampeded  by  him,  without 
reason,  to  your  own  destruction?  Would  you,  at 
this  stranger's  bidding,  dig  a  pit  for  your  fancied 
enemies  and  fall  into  it  yourselves?" 

Not  a  man  in  that  great  crowd  of  workmen  moved. 
In  breathless  silence  they  stood  awed  by  the  majesty 

353 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

.1 

of  the  old  basket  maker's  presence — hushed  by  I  the; 
sorrowful  authority  of  his  voice. 

Solemnly  the  Interpreter  continued,  "The  one 
who  took  the  life  of  your  comrade  workman,  Cap 
tain  Charlie,  was  not  a  tool  in  the  hands  of  your 
employers  as  you  have  been  led  to  believe.  Neither 
was  that  dreadful  act  inspired  by  the  workmen  of 
Millsburgh.  Captain  Charlie  was  killed  by  a  poor, 
foolish  weakling  who  was  under  the  same  spell 
that  to-night  has  so  nearly  led  you  into  this  blind 
folly  of  destroying  that  which  should  be  your  glory 
and  your  pride.  Sam  Whaley  has  confessed  to  me. 
He  has  surrendered  himself  to  the  proper  authori 
ties.  But  the  instigator  of  the  crime — the  one  who 
planned,  ordered  and  directed  it — the  leader  who 
dominated  and  drove  his  poor  tool  to  the  deed  is 
this  man  Jake  Vodell." 

The  sound  of  the  Interpreter's  voice  ceased.  For 
a  moment  longer  that  dead  silence  held — then  as 
the  full  import  of  the  old  basket  maker's  words 
went  home  to  them,  the  crowd  with  a  roar  of  fury 
turned  toward  the  spot  where  the  agitator  had 
stood  when  the  arrival  of  the  Interpreter  interrupted 
his  address. 

But  Jake  Vodell  had  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

CONTRACTS 

THEY  had  carried  the  Interpreter  back  to  his 
wheel  chair  in  the  hut  on  the  cliff. 

John,  Peter  Martin  and  the  two  young 
women  were  bidding  the  old  basket  maker  good 
night  when  suddenly  they  were  silenced  by  the  dull, 
heavy  sound  of  a  distant  explosion. 

A  moment  they  stood  gazing  at  one  another,  then 
John  voiced  the  thoughts  that  had  gripped  the 
minds  of  every  one  in  that  little  group : 

"The  Mill!" 

Springing  to  the  door  that  opened  on  to  the  bal 
cony  porch,  John  threw  it  open  and  they  went  out, 
taking  the  Interpreter  in  his  chair.  In  breathless 
silence  they  strained  their  eyes  toward  the  dark 
mass  of  the  Mill  with  its  forest  of  stacks  and  its 
many  lights. 

"  Every  thing  seems  to  be  all  right  there,"  mur 
mured  John. 

But  as  the  last  word  left  his  lips  a  chorus  of  exclam 
ations  came  from  the  others.  Farther  up  the  river 
a  dull  red  glow  flushed  the  sky. 

"Mclver's!" 

"The  factory!" 

The  Interpreter  said,  quietly,  "Jake  VodelL" 

With  every  second  the  red  glow  grew  brighter — 
reaching  higher  and  higher — spreading  wider  and 

355 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

wider  over  the  midnight  sky.  Then  they  could  see 
the  flames — threadlike  streaks  and  flashes  in  the  dark 
cloud  of  smoke  at  first  but  increasing  in  volume, 
climbing  and  climbing  in  writhing,  twisting  columns 
of  red  fury.  The  wild,  long-drawn  shriek  of  the 
fire  whistles,  the  clanging  roar  of  the  engines,  the 
frantic  rush  of  speeding  automobiles  awoke  the 
echoes  of  the  cliffs  and  aroused  the  sleeping  creatures 
on  the  hillsides.  The  volume  of  the  leaping,  whirling 
mass  of  flames  increased  until  the  red  glare  shut  out 
the  stars. 

The  officers  of  the  law  who  were  hunting  Jake 
Vodell  heard  that  explosion  and  telephoned  their 
stations  for  orders.  The  business  men  of  the  little 
city,  awakened  from  then*  sleep,  looked  from  their 
windows,  muttered  drowsy  conjectures  and  returned 
to  their  beds.  Mothers  and  children  hi  their 
homes  heard  and  turned  uneasily  in  their  dreams. 
The  dwellers  in  the  Flats  heard  and  wondered  fear 
fully. 

Before  morning  dawned  the  telegraph  wires  would 
carry  the  word  throughout  the  land.  In  every 
corner  of  our  country  the  people  would  read,  as  they 
have  all  too  often  read  of  similar  explosions.  They 
would  read,  offer  idle  comments,  perhaps,  and 
straightway  forget.  That  is  the  wonder  and  the 
shame  of  it — that  with  these  frequent  warnings  ring 
ing  in  our  ears  we  are  not  warned.  With  these  things 
continually  forced  upon  our  attention  we  do  not 
heed.  With  the  demonstration  before  our  eyes  we 
are  not  convinced.  We  are  not  aroused  to  the 
meaning  of  it  all. 

356 


CONTRACTS 


In  his  cell  in  the  county  jail,  Sam  Whaley  heard 
that  explosion  and  knew  what  it  was. 

The  Interpreter  was  right  when  he  said,  "Jake 
Vodell." 

It  was  an  hour,  perhaps,  after  the  Interpreter's 
friends  had  left  the  hut  when  the  old  basket  maker, 
who  was  still  sitting  at  the  window  watching  the 
burning  factory,  heard  an  automobile  approaching 
at  a  frightful  pace  from  the  direction  of  the  fire. 
The  noise  of  the  speeding  machine  ceased  with 
startling  suddenness  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway,  and 
the  Interpreter  heard  some  one  running  up  the 
steps  with  headlong  haste.  Without  pausing  to 
knock,  Adam  Ward  burst  into  the  room  and  stood 
panting  and  shaking  with  mad  excitement  before 
the  man  in  the  wheel  chair. 

The  Mill  owner's  condition  was  pitiful.  By  his 
eyes  that  were  glittering  with  wild,  unnatural  light, 
by  the  gray,  twitching  features,  the  grotesque  gest 
ures,  the  trembling,  jerking  limbs,  the  Interpreter 
knew  that  the  last  flickering  gleam  of  reason  had  gone 
out.  The  hour  toward  which  the  man  himself  had 
looked  with  such  dread  had  come.  Adam  Ward 
was  insane. 

With  a  leering  grin  of  triumph  the  madman  went 
closer  to  the  old  basket  maker.  "I  got  away  again. 
They  were  right  after  me  but  they  couldn't  catch 
me.  That  roadster  of  mine  is  the  fastest  car  in  the 
county — cost  me  four  thousand  dollars.  I  knew  if 
I  could  get  here  I  would  be  safe.  They  wouldn't 
think  of  looking  for  me  here  in  your  shanty,  would 

357 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

they?  They  can't  get  in  anyway  if  they  should 
come.  You  wouldn't — you  wouldn't  let  them  get 
me,  would  you?" 

' '  Peace,  Adam  Ward !    You  are  safe  here. ' ' 

The  insane  man  chuckled.  "The  folks  at  the 
house  think  I  am  in  my  room  asleep.  They  don't 
know  that  I  never  sleep.  I'll  tell  you  something. 
If  a  man  sleeps  he  goes  to  hell — hell — hell — 
His  voice  rose  almost  to  a  scream  and  he  shook 
with  terror. 

"Did  you  see  it?  Did  you  see  when  hell  broke 
out  to-night  over  there  where  Mclver's  factory  used 
to  be?  I  did — I  was  there  and  I  heard  them  roaring 
in  the  fires  of  torment  and  screaming  in  the  flames. 
They  called  for  me  but  I  laughed  and  came  here. 
They'll  never  get  Adam  Ward  into  hell.  They  don't 
know  it  yet,  but  I've  got  a  contract  with  God.  I 
fixed  it  up  myself  just  like  you  told  me  to  and  God 
signed  it  without  reading  it  just  as  Peter  Martin 
did.  I'll  show  them!  It'll  take  more  than  God  to 
get  the  best  of  Adam  Ward  in  a  deal." 

.He  walked  about  the  room,  waving  his  arms  and 
laughing  in  hideous  triumph,  muttering  mad  boasts 
and  mumbling  to  himself  or  taunting  the  phantom 
creatures  of  his  disordered  brain. 

The  helpless  Interpreter  could  only  wait  silently 
for  whatever  was  to  follow. 

At  last  the  madman  turned  again  to  the  old 
basket  maker.  Placing  a  chair  close  in  front  of  the 
Interpreter,  he  seated  himself  and  in  a  confidential 
whisper  said,  "Did  you  know  that  everybody  thinks 
I  am  going  insane?  Well,  I  am  not.  Nobody 

358 


CONTRACTS 


knows  it,  but  it's  not  me  that's  crazy — it's  John. 
He's  been  that  way  ever  since  he  got  home  from 
France.  The  poor  boy  thinks  the  world  is  still  at 
war  and  that  he  can  run  the  Mill  just  as  he  fought 
the  Germans  over  there.  There's  another  thing 
that  you  ought  to  know,  too — you  are  crazy  your 
self.  Don't  be  afraid,  I  won't  tell  anybody  else. 
But  you  ought  to  know  it.  If  a  man  knows  it  when 
he  is  going  crazy  it  gives  him  a  chance  to  fix  things 
up  with  God  so  they  can't  get  him  into  hell  for  all 
eternity,  you  see.  So  I  thought  I  had  better  tell 

you." 

The  Interpreter  spoke  in  a  calm,  matter-of-fact 
tone.  "Thank  you,  Adam,  I  appreciate  your  kind 
ness." 

"I  was  there  at  the  Mill  to-night,"  Adam  con 
tinued,  "  and  I  heard  you  tell  them  who  killed  Charlie 
Martin.  And  then  those  crazy  fools  went  tearing 
off  to  hunt  Jake  Vodell."  He  chuckled  and  laughed. 
"What  difference  does  it  make  who  killed  Charlie 
Martin?  I  own  the  patented  process.  I  am  the 
man  they  want.  But  they  can't  touch  me.  I 
hired  the  best  lawyers  hi  the  country  and  I've  got 
it  sewed  up  tight.  I  put  one  over  on  Pete  Martin 
in  that  deal  and  I've  put  one  over  on  God,  too.  I've 
got  God  sewed  up  tight,  I  tell  you,  just  like  I  sewed 
up  Peter  Martin.  They  can  howl  their  heads  off 
but  they'll  never  get  me  into  hell." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  the  satisfied  air 
of  a  business  man  crediting  himself  with  having 
closed  a  successful  transaction. 

Then,  with  a  manner  and  voice  that  was  apparently 
359 


HELEN   OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

normal,  he  said,  "Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  how  I 
got  that  patented  process  of  mine,  Wallace?''  The 
Interpreter  knew  by  his  use  of  that  name,  so  seldom 
heard  in  these  later  years,  that  Adam's  mind  was 
back  in  the  old  days  when,  with  Peter  Martin,  they 
had  worked  side  by  side  at  the  same  bench  in  the 
Mill. 

Hoping  to  calm  him,  the  old  basket  maker  re 
turned  indifferently,  "No,  Adam,  I  don't  remember 
that  you  ever  told  me,  but  don't  you  think  some 
other  tune  would  be  better  perhaps  than  to-night? 
It  is  getting  late  and  you — 

The  other  interrupted  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 
"Oh,  that's  all  right.  It's  safe  enough  to  talk 
about  it  now.  Besides,"  he  added,  with  a  cunning 
leer,  "nobody  would  believe  you  if  you  should  tell 
them  the  truth.  You're  nothing  but  a  crazy  old 
basket  maker  and  I  am  Adam  Ward,  don't  forget 
that  for  a  minute."  He  glared  threateningly  at  the 
man  in  the  wheel  chair,  and  the  Interpreter,  fear 
ing  another  outburst,  said,  soothingly,  "Certainly, 
Adam,  I  understand.  I  will  not  forget." 

With  the  manner  of  one  relating  an  interesting 
story  in  which  he  himself  figured  with  great  per 
sonal  credit,  Adam  Ward  said : 

"It  was  Pete  Martin,  you  see,  who  actually  dis 
covered  the  new  process.  But,  luckily  for  me,  I  was 
the  first  one  he  told  about  it.  He  had  worked  it  all 
out  and  I  persuaded  him  not  to  say  a  thing  to  any 
one  else  until  the  patents  were  secured.  Pete  didn't 
really  know  the  value  of  what  he  had.  But  I  knew— 
I  saw  from  the  first  that  it  would  revolutionize  the 

360 


CONTRACTS 


whole  business,  and  I  knew  it  would  make  a  fortune 
for  the  man  that  owned  the  patents. 

"Pete  and  I  were  pretty  good  friends  in  those 
days,  but  friendship  don't  go  far  in  business.  I 
never  had  a  friend  in  my  life  that  I  couldn't  use 
some  way.  So  I  had  Pete  over  to  my  house  every 
evening  and  made  a  lot  over  him  and  talked  over 
his  new  process  and  made  suggestions  how  he  should 
handle  it,  until  finally  he  offered  to  give  me  a  half 
interest  if  I  would  look  after  the  business  details. 
That,  of  course,  was  exactly  what  I  was  playing  for. 
And  all  this  tune,  you  see,  I  took  mighty  good  care 
that  not  a  soul  was  around  when  Pete  and  I  talked 
things  over.  So  we  fixed  it  all  up  between  us — with 
no  one  to  hear  us,  mind  you — that  we  were  to  share 
equally — half  and  half — in  whatever  the  new  process 
brought. 

"After  that,  I  went  ahead  and  got  all  the  patents 
good  and  tight  and  then  I  fixed  up  a  nice  little  docu 
ment  for  Pete  to  sign.  But  I  waited  and  I  didn't 
say  a  word  to  Pete  until  one  evening  when  he  and 
his  wife  were  studying  and  figuring  out  the  plans 
for  the  house  they  were  going  to  build.  I  sat  and 
planned  with  them  a  while  until  I  saw  how  Pete's 
mind  was  all  on  his  new  house,  and  then  all  at  once 
I  put  my  little  document  down  on  the  table  hi 
front  of  him  and  said,  'By  the  way,  Pete,  those 
patents  will  be  coming  along  pretty  soon  and  I  have 
had  a  little  contract  fixed  up  just  as  a  matter  of 
form — you  know  how  we  planned  it  all.  Here's 
where  you  sign ' 

Adam  Ward  paused  to  laugh  with  insane  glee. 
361 


HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

"Pete  did  just  what  I  knew  he'd  do — he  signed  that 
document  without  even  reading  a  line  of  it  and  went 
on  with  his  house  planning  and  figuring  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  But  something  had  happened — 
something  big  had  happened.  Instead  of  the  way 
we  had  planned  it  together  when  we  were  talking 
alone  with  nobody  to  witness  it,  Pete  signed  to  me 
outright  for  one  dollar  all  his  rights  and  interests  in 
that  new  patented  process." 

Again  the  madman  laughed  triumphantly.  "Pete 
never  even  found  out  what  he'd  done  until  nearly  a 
year  later.  And  then  he  wouldn't  believe  it  until 
the  lawyers  made  him.  He  couldn't  do  anything 
of  course.  I  had  it  sewed  up  too  tight.  That  proc 
ess  is  mine,  I  tell  you — mine  by  all  the  laws  in  the 
country.  What  if  I  did  take  advantage  of  him! 
That's  business.  A  man  ought  to  have  sense 
enough  to  read  what  he  puts  his  signature  to.  You 
don't  catch  me  trusting  anybody  far  enough  to  sign 
anything  he  puts  before  me  without  reading  it. 
Why — why — what  are  you  crying  for?" 

Adam  Ward  was  not  mistaken — the  Interpreter's 
eyes  were  wet  with  tears. 

The  sight  of  the  old  basket  maker's  grief  sent  the 
insane  man  off  on  another  tangent.  "Don't  you 
worry  about  me.  Helen  and  John  and  their  mother 
worry  a  lot  about  me.  They  think  I'm  going  to 
hell." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  hoarse  inarticulate 
cry.  "They'll  never  get  me  into  hell!  God  has 
got  to  keep  His  contracts  and  I've  fixed  it  all  up  so 
He'll  have  to  save  me  whether  He  wants  to  or  not. 

362 


CONTRACTS 


The  papers  are  all  signed  and  everything.  My 
lawyer  has  got  them  in  his  safe.  God  can't  help 
Himself.  You  told  me  I'd  better  do  it  and  I  have. 
I'm  not  afraid  to  meet  God  now !  I'll  show  Him  just 
like  I  showed  Pete." 

He  rushed  from  the  room  as  abruptly  as  he  had 
entered.  The  Interpreter  heard  him  plunging  down 
the  stairs.  The  roar  of  his  automobile  died  away 
in  the  distance. 

In  an  early  morning  extra  edition,  the  Millsburgh 
Clarion  announced  the  death  of  two  of  the  most 
prominent  citizens. 

James  Mclver  was  killed  in  the  explosion  that 
burned  his  factory. 

Adam  Ward's  body  was  found  in  a  secluded  corner 
of  his  beautiful  estate.  He  died  by  his  own  hand. 

The  cigar-store  philosopher  put  his  paper  down  and 
reached  into  the  show  case  for  the  box  that  the 
judge  wanted.  "It  looks  like  Mclver  played  the 
wrong  cards  in  his  little  game  with  Jake  Vodell," 
he  remarked,  as  the  judge  made  a  careful  selection. 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  returned  the  judge. 

The  postmaster  took  a  handful  from  the  same 
box  and  said,  as  he  dropped  a  dollar  on  the  top  of 
the  show  case,  "I  see  Sam  Whaley  has  confessed 
that  the  blowing  up  of  the  factory  was  all  set  as  part 
of  their  program.  Their  plan  was  to  wreck  the  Mill 
first  then  Mclver's  place.  Where  do  you  suppose 
Jake  Vodell  got  away  to?" 

"Hard  to  guess,"  said  the  judge. 

The  philosopher  put  the  proper  change  before 
363 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

them.  "There's  one  thing  sure — the  people  of  these 
here  United  States  had  better  get  good  and  busy 
findin'  out  where  he  is." 

It  was  significant  that  neither  the  philosopher  nor 
his  customers  mentioned  the  passing  of  Adam  Ward. 


BOOK  IV 
THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Tell  them,  0  Guns,  that  we  have  heard  their  call, 
That  we  have  sworn,  and  will  not  turn  aside, 

That  we  will  onward  till  we  win  or  fall, 

That  we  will  keep  the  faith  for  which  they  died." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

"  JEST  LIKE  THE  INTERPRETER  SAID" 

IT  is  doubtful  if  in  all  Millsburgh  there  was  a  soul 
who  felt  a  personal  loss  in  the  passing  of  their 
"esteemed  citizen"  Adam  Ward.  During  the 
years  that  followed  his  betrayal  of  Peter  Martin's 
friendship  the  man  had  never  made  a  friend  who 
loved  him  for  himself — who  believed  in  him  or 
trusted  him.  In  business  circles  his  reputation 
for  deals  that  were  always  carefully  legal  but 
often  obviously  dishonest  had  caused  the  men  he 
met  to  accept  him  only  so  far  as  their  affairs  made 
the  contact  necessary.  Because  of  the  power  he 
had  through  his  possession  of  the  patented  process 
he  was  known.  His  place  in  the  community  had 
been  fixed  by  what  he  took  from  the  community. 
His  habit  of  boasting  of  his  possessions,  of  his  power, 
and  of  his  business  triumphs,  and  his  way  of  consider 
ing  the  people  as  his  personal  debtors  had  been  a 
never-failing  subject  of  laughing  comment.  Men 
spoke  of  his  death  in  a  jocular  vein — made  jests 
about  it — wondering  what  he  was  really  worth. 
But  one  and  all  invariably  concluded  their  comments 
with  some  word  of  sincere  sympathy  for  his  family. 
Because  of  the  people's  estimation  of  the  Mill 
owner's  character,  the  publication  of  his  will  created 
a  sensation  the  like  of  which  was  never  before  known 
in  the  community. 

367 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

One  half  of  his  estate,  including  the  Mill,  Adam 
Ward  gave  to  his  family.  The  other  half  he  gave  to 
his  old  workman  friend,  Peter  Martin. 

Millsburgh  was  stunned,  stupefied  with  amazement 
and  wonder.  But  no  one  outside  the  two  families, 
save  the  Interpreter,  ever  knew  the  real  reason  for 
the  bequest.  The  old  basket  maker  alone  under 
stood  that  this  was  Adam  Ward's  deal  with  God — 
it  was  the  contract  by  which  he  was  to  escape 
the  hell  of  his  religious  fears — the  horrors  of  which 
he  had  so  often  suffered  hi  his  dreams  and  the 
dread  of  which  had  so  preyed  upon  his  diseased  mind. 

When  the  necessary  tune  for  the  legal  processes  in 
the  settlement  of  Adam  Ward's  estate  had  passed, 
John  called  the  Mill  workers  together.  In  his 
notice  of  the  meeting,  the  manager  stated  simply 
that  it  was  to  consider  the  mutual  interests  of  the 
employers  and  employees  by  safeguarding  the 
future  of  the  industry.  When  the  workmen  had 
assembled,  they  wondered  to  see  on  the  platform  with 
their  general  manager,  Helen  and  her  mother, 
Mary  and  Peter  Martin,  the  city  mayor,  with 
representative  men  from  the  labor  unions  and  from 
the  business  circles  of  the  community,  and,  sitting 
in  his  wheel  chair,  the  Interpreter. 

To  the  employees  in  the  Mill  and  to  the  repre 
sentatives  of  the  people  the  announcement  of  the 
final  disposition  of  Adam  Ward's  estate  was  made. 

The  house  on  the  hill  with  the  beautiful  grounds 
surrounding  it  became  in  effect  the  property  of 
the  people — with  an  endowment  fixed  for  its  main 
tenance.  It  was  to  be  converted  into  a  center  of 

368 


"JEST    LIKE    THE    INTERPRETER    SAID" 

community  interest,  one  feature  of  which  was  to  be 
an  institute  for  the  study  of  patriotism. 

"We  have  foundations  for  the  promotion  of  the 
sciences,  of  art  and  of  business,"  said  the  legal 
gentleman  who  made  the  announcements.  "Why 
not  an  institution  for  the  study  and  promotion  of 
patriotism — research  hi  the  fields  of  social  and 
industrial  life  that  are  peculiarly  American — lec 
tures,  classes,  and  literature  on  the  true  Americani 
zation  of  those  who  come  to  us  from  foreign  coun 
tries — the  promotion  of  true  American  principles 
and  standards  of  citizenship  in  our  public  schools 
and  educational  institutions  and  among  our  people — 
the  collection  and  study  of  authentic  data  from  the 
many  industrial  and  social  experiments  that  are  being 
carried  on — these  are  some  of  the  proposed  activi 
ties." 

This  Institute  of  American  Patriotism  would  be 
under  the  leadership  of  the  Interpreter  and  would 
stand  as  a  memorial  to  the  memory  of  Captain 
Charlie  Martin. 

When  the  mayor,  in  behalf  of  the  people,  had 
made  a  fitting  response  to  this  presentation,  John 
told  the  Mill  men  that  their  employer,  Pete  Martin, 
would  make  an  announcement. 

The  old  workman  was  greeted  with  cheers.  Some 
one  in  the  crowd  called,  good-naturedly,  "How  does 
it  feel  to  be  an  owner,  Uncle  Pete?"  Everybody 
laughed  and  the  veteran  himself  grinned. 

"I  guess  I'm  too  old  to  change  my  feelings  much, 
Bill  Sewold,"  he  answered.  "And  that's  about 
what  I  was  going  to  tell  you.  The  lawyers  say  that 

369 


HELEN  OF  THE   OLD  HOUSE 

I  own  half  of  our  Mill  here  and  that  I  can  do  what  I 
please  with  it.  But  I  can't  some  way  make  it  seem 
any  more  mine  than  it  always  was.  Mary  and  I 
are  agreed  that  we'd  like  to  do  what  we  know 
Charlie  would  be  in  for  if  he  was  here,  and  we've 
talked  it  over  with  John  and  his  folks  and  they  feel 
just  like  we  do  about  it. 

"  The  lawyers  can  explain  the  workin's  of  the 
plan  to  you  better  than  I  can;  but  this  is  the  main 
idea:  The  whole  thing  has  been  made  over  into  a 
company  with  John  and  his  mother  and  sister  own 
ing  one  half  and  me  the  other.  What  John  wants 
me  to  tell  you  is  that  he  and  his  folks  are  turning 
one  half  of  their  interest  and  Mary  and  me  are 
turning  one  half  of  our  interest  back  to  you  work 
men.  So  that  from  now  on  all  the  employees  of 
the  Mill  will  be  employers — and  all  the  employers 
will  be  employees.  With  John  and  me  and  our  folks 
owning  one  half,  you  can  see  that  we're  figuring  on 
keeping  the  management  in  the  proper  hands. 
John  will  be  in  the  office  where  he  belongs  and  the 
rest  of  us  will  be  where  we  belong.  Considering 
our  recent  demonstration,  I  guess  you'll  all  agree 
that  a  lot  of  us  need  to  be  protected  by  the  rest  of  us 
from  all  of  us.  And  now  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  work. 
And  I'd  like  to  see  Jake  Vodell  or  any  other  foreign 
agitator  try  to  start  another  industrial  war  in  Mills- 
burgh." 

It  was  the  Interpreter  who  asked  the  assembled 
workmen  to  endorse  a  petition  to  the  governor 
asking  clemency  for  Sam  Whaley.  The  ground  upon 
which  the  petition  was  based  was  that  the  guilty 

370 


"JEST    LIKE    THE    INTERPRETER    SAID" 

principal  in  the  crime  was  still  at  liberty — that 
others,  still  unknown,  were  involved  with  him — 
that  Sam  Whaley  by  his  confession  had  saved  the 
Mill  and  the  community  from  the  full  horrors 
planned  by  the  agitator,  and  that  under  the  new 
standard  of  industrial  citizenship  the  former  fol 
lower  of  the  anarchist  might  hi  tune  become  a  useful 
member  of  society. 

A  solemn  hush  fell  over  the  company  when  Peter 
Martin,  Mary,  John  and  Helen  were  the  first  to  sign 
the  petition. 

The  old  house  is  no  longer  empty,  deserted  and 
forlorn.  Repaired  and  repainted  from  the  front 
gate  to  the  back-yard  fence — with  well-kept  lawn, 
flowers  and  garden — it  impresses  the  passer-by  with 
its  air  of  modest  home  happiness.  To  Helen  and 
her  mother  who  live  there,  to  John  and  his  wife, 
Mary,  and  to  the  old  workman  who  live  in  the 
cottage  next  door,  the  spirit  of  the  old  days  has 
returned. 

The  neighbors  in  passing  always  stop  for  a  word 
with  the  gray-haired  woman  who  works  among  her 
flowers  just  as  she  used  to  do  before  the  discovery 
of  the  new  process,  or  with  her  sweet-faced  daughter. 
The  workmen  going  to  or  from  the  Mill  always  have 
a  smile  or  a  word  of  greeting  for  the  mother  and  the 
sister  of  their  comrade  manager. 

Nor  is  there  a  man  or  woman  in  all  the  city  or  in 
the  country  round  about  who  does  not  know  and 
love  this  Helen  of  the  old  house,  who  is  giving 
herself  so  without  reserve  to  the  people's  need,  who 

371 


HELEN  OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

has,  as  the  Interpreter  says,  "found  herself  in  ser 
vice." 

But  when  the  deep  tones  of  the  Mill  whistle  sound 
over  the  city,  the  valley  and  the  hillsides,  there  is  a 
look  in  Helen's  eyes  that  only  those  who  know  her 
best  understand. 

And  often  in  these  days  the  neighborhood  of  the 
old  house  rings  with  the  merry  voices  of  Bobby  and 
Maggie  and  their  playmates.  From  the  Flats — 
from  the  tenement  houses — from  the  homes  of  the 
laborers,  they  come,  these  children,  to  this  beautiful 
woman  who  loves  them  all  and  who  calls  them,  some 
what  fancifully,  her  "  jewels  of  happiness." 

"Yer  see,"  explained  little  Maggie,  "the  princess 
lady,  she  jest  couldn't  help  findin'  them  there 
happiness  jewels — 'cause  her  heart  was  so  kind — 
jest  like  the  Interpreter  said." 


THE  END 

111 


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